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32  X 


ç,.„ 


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1> 


T-     1 

1 

2 

•• 

■  ».  » 

■ 

—Ju 

'U  ^ 


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1 


3 


i2X 


6 


ST.!    i'L 


.■   l 


•■ï!Pfc>î:-. 


■V, 


■■^.■' 


'  POPULAR  NOVELS. 

BY  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


■  1.— GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 

2.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

8.-i-A  TERRIBLE  BECRET. 

4— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 

6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 

7.— KATE  DANTON. 

8.— SILENT  AND  TRUE. 

9.— HÉIR  OP  CHAR^TON. 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM. 
It.— LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN. 
12.— A   WIFE'S  TRAGEDY.^Mto.) 


#"-^ 


Mrs.  Plemlng's  storics  are  growing  fnore  and  more 

popalar  every  day.  Thoir  delincations.qf  character, 

Iife-like    conversations,   flaahea /<^  ^it,  con- 

Btantly  varying  «cènes,  and  deéply  inter- 

esting    plots,    combine   to    pfac« 

tbeir    anthor    in    the  very 

"  flnt  rank  OT  Modem 

Novelteta."  -^ 
'_    ,             f    ^ 

AU  pnbliBhed  nnifonn  with  this  volume^   Price  $1.B0 
each,  and  eentjiw  by  mai)  on  receipt  of  priée, 

'  BT 

G.  W.   CARIETON  &  CO.,  Pobllsherg, 
New  York. 


f 


^iv;  A 


.(^. 

■«-*.'' 


I    ■ 


«  / 


f' 


LÔST 


Ft)R    A    WOMAN. 


f 


Ca  Kouel. 


BT 


MAY    AGNES    FLEMIN®,     • 


AUTHOR   OF 


SILENT   AND   T#;e."    "a  MAD    MARRIAGE,"    "A  TERRIBLE    SECRET," 
•*  GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE."  "  A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN," 
".ONE  NiGHT's  MYSTERY,"  ETC..  ETC. 


\ 


'»v_„^/?',.^S;^^'\ 


I  ; 


"  That  I  might  ail  forget  the  humari  race. 

And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her  !" 

-   Byron-^Childe  Harold. 


\ 


JQ^W, 


<&. 


NEW    YORK: 

Curktonr  &  ^o,^    Pubîhhers, 

LONDON  :    S.    LOW   A   CO. 
MDCCCLXX». 


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•^'-.•'  ,       SAiiim,  Stoodir. 

I  *  *  BLKrmoTTPiR  &  STiBionnni, 
1  »  Ahk  Stbut,  N.  y. 


Tiinw 

Pbimtos  and  BooK-BoiiHira  Chk 

N.Y. 


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CONTENTS. 


PART  L 


r 


L 

n. 
m. 

IV. 

V. 

YL 

YTL 


liniîch  Presenls  Jemima  Ann 

In  Which  We  Meet  Two  Professional  Ladies. . . , 
In  Which  We  èo  to  theCirens. ..........  w.... 

Which  Records  the  Dark  Doîngs  o£  Mlle.  Min^f., 

In  Which  We  Visit  Madame  Valentine. 

Whicl\  Introduces  Mr.  Vaçe  Valentine 

Which  Treats  of  Love's  Toang  Dreant , . . , 

IiQSt  For  a  Womani N ........ 

Which  Records  a  Tragedy. .^ 

In  Which  Snowball  ia  Dispoâed  of 


PART  IL 


XI. 

.    xn. 
3av, 

XV. 

.  xvt 
xyn. 
xvnL 


.:XOC" 


We  Perdrix. ; 

Chapeau  Dievb . . 

Pour  Days 

Mbnsienf  Piiul , 

SnowbaU's  Hero. 

Vîlla  des  Angea. 

La  Vivandière. 


••••••••••••• 


\JLiL±.f  t^ata 


7 
16 
24 
85 
48 
68 
61 

7a 

86 
110 


120 
188 
166 
165 
17» 
191 
100 


J 


'-*• 


'0^ 


«  La  Reine  Bhinche 934 

"  AdienI  0  plaisant  paya  de  Prancel" i8$ 


^^Yv-^^'r:^ 


Wfr'' 


■fi 


Vi 


PART  m. 

CBAnm 

XXI.  "Nota8aChildShallWeAgainBeholdHer"..'8M 

XXIL  " There  Came  a  Laddie  Hère  to  Woo » 268 

XXin.  f  «  To  Love  or  Hâte— to  Win  or  Lose  ".....'        871 

XXIV.  "Notbing    Cornes    Amiss,    gp    Money  '  Comci 

withai" ::v ;   gg^ 

XXV.     ";V7hatever'BLo8t,it  First  waa  Won.... !.!...]  291 
XXVI.     "  Fire  that  is  Closest  Kept,  Burns  Most  of  AU  "  '  299 
XXVn.     "Fortune  Brings  ia  Some  Boata  that  are  not 

Steered» •. ^^^ 

XXVin.     "InHisDreamsHeShallSeoTheeandAcho'»..  820' 

PART  IV. 


%!- 


^m^' 


.XXIX. 

XXXI. 

XXXTT. 
XXXHL 

x:^v. 

'  XXXVI. 

xxxvn. 
xxxvm. 

XL. 


838 


My  Lady  Valentine 

"  Full  Cold  My  Greeting  Was,  and  Dr^  "  '. .  '  '  * .'  ]  ^5 
"  For  AU  is  Dark  Where  Thon  Art  Not  ».  ' .  *  847 
"Oh,  Serpent  Heart  Hid  WithaFlowerin^Fwèr»  868 
"  Tired  Ont  We  Are,  My  Heart  and  I  ». . . . . . . ,.  875 

♦'  Nofc  Tbus  in  Other  Days  We  Met  " • 884 

"  It  was  tbe  Hour  When  Woods  are  oôld  ».. . .  [ .  8Q8 

"  Adrif t,  as  a  Leaf  iu  the  Storm  » .* . .  404 

" After  Long  Grief  and  I»ain '\  ,..^......[.      414 

"For  Sad  Times,  and  Glad  Times,  and  ail  Times 

I^^O^er» .....:,; ^^ 

" For  Time  at  Last  Makes  Ail  Things  Bren »...    487 
" Ere ICeaseto Loto Her,  MyQaoenI"..,... '.*.'.'  44a 


% 


«T 


.\t 


LOST   FOR  A  WOMAN. 


;  PART   I. 

*'In  minets  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that  I   evéf  looked  on.** 

Muck  Ado  About  Notking, 

.  CHAPTER    I. 

-^HICH  PRESENTS  JEMIMA  ANfT. 

T  is  a  dreaiy  prospect.  Àll  c^long  ît  has 
rained  ;  as  the  ^hort  afternoon  wears  apace, 
it  poiirs.  «Mrs.  flopkins'  nièce,  laying  down 
the  novel,  over  Which  for  the  past  hour  she 
has  been  absorbed,  regards  the  weather  through  the 
grated  kitchen  window  with  a  gentle  melancholy  upon 
her,  begotten  of  its  gloom,  and  retums  despondently  to 
her  novel.  A  soft  step  stealing  down  the  back  stairs,  a 
soft,  deprecàting  voi<3e,  breaks  in  upon  the  narrative  and 
her  solitude.  ^ 

"  If^pu  pleas^  Miss  Jim  ?"  x 

" Qff  ï»' 'âys  Jemima  Ann,  "is  that  you?    Comç  in, 
Mr.  Boolittle.    Dreadful  nasty  evening,  now,  ain't  it  ?" 
"  Well.  It  airit  nice."  sayg  Mr.  Doolittle,  apologeti- 


odljr;  "andl  guess  ï  woû*t  muss  your  clëan  flôbr  by 
coming.in.  What  l've  looked  in  for,  Miss  Jim,  is  a  pair 
o'  rubbera.    Mra  Hopkins  she  don't  like  gum  shoes  l^k 


^^  ''V  A    ff':  '-  ^i'' 


>-t 


I 


■  .Vf" 


'  i>î 


?;■• 


8        WHICff  PRESENTS   yEMIMA    ANN. 

clutterin'  about  the  bedrooms,  so  sh'e  says,  and  totéi  'emV 
ail  down  hère.     Number  niiies,  Miss  Jetnitna,  and  writh 
a  holé  in  one  of  the  heels.     T  lanky  ;  îthem's  them." 

Jemima  Ann  produces  the  rubbers,  and  Mr.  Doolittle 
meekly  départs.     He  is  a  soft-spoken  lîttle  man,  with 


weak  eyes,  a   bald.  spot^  a 


henpecked' aiid    dcfpresçed 


manner.  Jemima  Ann  wishe»  ail  the  boarders  were  like 
him--than)cful  for  small  mercies,  and  never  finding  fault 
with  the  victuals,  or  swearing  at  her  down  the  back  stairs. 
The' boarders  do  swear  at  , liera ima  Ann  sometimes, 
cursès  both  loud  and  deep,  anp  huri  boots,  and  brushes, 
and  malédictions  down  the,  ar|ea,  when,  absorbed  in  the 
aesthetic  woes  of  her  heroirfe,  she  forgets  the  gross 
material  needs  of  thèse  sinful  yoiuig  men.  But  long 
habit,  seven  years  of  boarding-house  drudgery;  has 
inured  her  to  ail  this  ;  and  imprécation^  a^d  bootjacks 
alike  raîn  up^eeded  on  her  f  ro wzy  head.  iC  sensible  head, 
too,  in  tl^e  main,  and  with  an  ugly,  good'^mored  face 
looking  out  of  it,  and  at  boarding-house  life  in  gênerai, 
through  two  round,  bright  black  eyes. 

It  is  a  rainy  evening  in  early  October,  the  dismal 
twilight  of  a  wet  and  di§mal  day.  Mrs.  Hopkins'.  base-, 
ment  kitchen^is  lit  by  four  greenish  panes  of '  mud- 
bespattered  glass,  six  inches  higher  than  tlie  pavement 
Through  thèse  six  inches  of  green  crystal  Jemima  Ann 
sees  ail  she  ever  sees  of  the  outdoor  world  <m  its  winding 
way.  Hundreds  of  ankles,  maie  and  female,  thick  and 
thin,  clean  and  dirty,  according  to  the  state  of  the  atmos- 
phere,  pass  thèse  four  squares  of  duU  light  every  day, 
and  ail  day  long,  far  into  the  night,  too  ;  for  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins' boarding-house  is  in  a  popular  street,  handy  foi 
the  workingmen — artisans  in  iron,,mostly,  who  fréquent' 
it    A  great  foundry  is  near,  where  stoves  and  ranges, 


"^WTïeaters  and  grates^fë  mairafacttired,  with:  iroraei 
grime,  and  clanking  of  great  hatnmers,  and  clouds  pf 
blackest  coal-smoke,  until  tbat  way  madness  lies  ;  aad 
the  "hands  "  émerge  in  scores,  black  a$  démons,  and  go 


*^ 


/*»#■?  1^!,  ■ 


WHICH   PRESENTS   JEMIMA   ANN.       9 

liome  'to  wash  and  dine  at  Mrs.  Hopkins'  -^ardiag- 
house.  Limitless  is  the  (lemand  for  water,  great  and 
mighty  the  cry  for  yellow  soap,  cf  thèse  horny-haiïded 
Vulcans,  who;  like  lobsters,  go  into  thèse' stean^ng  cal- 
.  drons  very  black  and  corne  out  v^  red.  For  seven, 
long  years  Jemima  Ann  has  waited  onthese  children  of 
the  forge,  and  been  anathenwtized  in  thé  sj^rbngest 
vemacular  for  âlbwness  and  "muddle-headedness,"  and 
got  dinners  and  teas,  and  washed  dishes,  and  swegt  bed- 
rooms,  and  made  beds,  and  went  errands,  and  reâd 
novels  and»  story-papers,  and  watched  the  neve^nding  . 
stream  of  boot-heels  passing  *aad  repassing  the  dingy 
panes  of  glass,.and  waxed,  from  a  country  lass  of  seven- 
teen,  to  a  strong-artned,  sallow-faced  young  woman  pf 
twenty-four  ;  and  ail  ithe  romance  of  life  that^ever  came 
nqar  her,  to  brighten  ,the  dull»  drab  of  every  day,  wàa 
contained  in  the  "  awiul  "  %ice  stories  devoured^in  «very 
spare  moment,  left  her  in  t|»e  bi^sy  caravansera  of  her 
aunt  Samantha  Hopkins.  '^  . 

The  rain  patters  againist  the  glass;  the  twilight  deep- 
ens.  Jeij^jjjûi  Ànn  has  to  strain  her  eyes  to  catch  the 
last  entriPlng  sentences  of  chaptçr  five.  The  anfcles 
that^ficutrjr.  past  ^  muddy,  the  skirts  bedraggled. 
Jemima  Ann  wishes  they  were  fewer;  they  come  between 
her  and  the  last  bleak  rays  of  light.  A  melancholy  au- 
tumnal  wind  rises,  and  blows  some  whirling  dead  leiavea 
dow|i  the  area  ;  the  gutter  just  outside  swells  to  a.minia* 
turc  torrent,  and  has  quite  the  romantic  roar  of  a  small 
river.  Jemima  A^n  pensively  thinks.  Even-  she  cah  read 
no  more.  She  lays  down  her  tattered  book  with  à  deep 
sigh  of  r^ret,  props  her  elbdws  on  her  Wnees,  sinks  her 
chin  in  her  p^ilms,  and  gazes  sentimentally  upward  at 
the  greébish' calment.  It  is  nearly  time  to  go  and  light 
^thfi.gasJathc  Ant,jialLjftiid,dlnin^-roQm,  sl^c-opin 


.■* 


€ 


>^. 


The  men  will  be  hère  directly,  àll  shouting  but  togcther 

.  for  warm  water  and  more  soap,  and  anbther  towel,  and— 

be  dashed  to  yott  ï    Then  there  is  col4  coraed-t^ef  ta  b# 


^ 


xo 


WHICH  PRESENTS  ^EMIMA  ANN. 


four  I^  J^h^P"''  ?^.  ^''"^^  ^"'  ^"  ^'■«^^  «"<^es  from 
four  Ijuge  home-made  loates,  and  the  stewed  apples  ta 

be  got  out  apd  the  tea  putto  dràw,  and  after  th^t  tl^ 

to  fnorrow's  f)reakfast.  ,^  ^         ^  ^^ci  lor 

Jernima'4nn  sighs  again.  and"  this  tim^  it  is  not  for 

the  patrician  sorrows  of  the  loyely  Duch<^s  Isoline     In 


J\ 


i  ' 


»  — ■  7        ""O     iUUg 

should  beso,  else  even  Jemima  Ann,  patLt,  ploddinè 
«rong  of  arm,  stout  of  heart,  sweet  of  temper^  ^S 
of  mmd,  might  go  ,lo«rly  melaneholy  raad.  ^ 

It  would  be  awful  pleasant  to  be  like  they  are  ift 
sfones,"  mases  Jemima  Ann.«tilIbH„kingupward  aTthe 
gmr  squares  of  blurred  light,  "  and  hâve  Lure  eyes  a,î- 
:  çolden  tresses,  and  wear  white  Swissaid  sweeping 'sife 

<^k«s  and  thmgs,  to  gaze  at  aperson  passionatelv  and 

,'l.fta^person-s.handtb.their  lips."    Jemima  An Jmtt 

«vsl    ît"""'!""'  rs'"'«'°«.«  'his  poinfïandl*! 

St  t'      '*  f^^^y  '^  large,,and  altogether  as  hard 
■  ^irH     "V"/  °'  '^^  '""""^-y  "  ^»"ds  :••  and  she  sigïs  a 

tlurd  sig^  deepesf  and.  dolef ultest  of  ail.    There  are 
.  h„ds  and  hands  ,  thelmpossibility  of  any  moit^man    ^ 

in  Ws,senses,  ever  wantibg.to  Kft  Ms  hand  to  hisîo"' 

fauTT  bgings  as-Hhe'  Duchess  Isoline.    And  yet  JeS    ' 
.1     ..^  I  .  i'!!""^'"'  can  qonient  her.     No  h/rni  ^* 


y. 


theiank 


>me  uni 


»»,  „»  '^  ""y  My  "  can  greatly^nterest  her.    Pict-  , 
«««s  of  ordina,yeveTr:day  life,  of  ordinior  eveiyXyC 


(  — 


wS*i*"ii,^'-*-  *>% 


'*•>).<- 


Jir*».. 


■•B■^      '  f^'^"-    r»"i.-| 


.-people,  pall  upon  the  highly-seasoned"  palate  of  Jemfma 
Aiïn.  Her  own  Jife  is  so  ùtterly  unloveJy.  so  grinding 
^n  its  sordid  ughness,  thdt  shc  will  haye  np  ^eflection  of 

^hér     His  mcn  and  women  tâlk  and  act,  and  are  but  as 
-:■,.shadowyr5^^onsofth0seshcfneerseveryday 

-Nothing  Dickens  èver  .vrote,"  says  JemimaAnn, 

.  w.th  conviction  "  is  to  be  named  in  the  same  day  with 

the   Doom  of  the  Duchess,'  or  '  The  Belle  ofBelAvia.'  " 

Thçdarknessdeepens,  the  rain  falls,  the  wind  of  the 

.   autumn  night  sighs  outside.    Throi.gh  the  gusty  glo^- 

inga  shneking  whistle  S^ddé'nly.  pierces,"  aâd  jL^a 

whistle  I    Ther  moments  for  dréaping  are  ât  an  end. 
Life,  at  its  ugliestrgrimiest,  most  practical,  iç  hère.    tW 
men  wiU  behome  fo?«upper  in  five  ihinutés. 
r,'       1'"   ""S*  breathless  voice.  ^t  is  a  woman'rf 
voice,  Sharp,  thm/eager.    Ther^  is  a  swish  of^  woman's 
petticoats  down  the  dark  stairs.  a  bounce  into  the  kitchen, 
^n  an  angry  exclamation  :  "  You  Jim  !  are  you  hère 
What  are  you  foolin'  at  fum,  and  i't  blinà  maiiVholiday 
ail  overihe  house  !  "  .  ^ 

k1  ^'°Î  ^.îif ^'•"'  "P'  AuntSamanthy,"  respoads  Jemima 
Ann,  placidly;  "you  know  you  don't  like  the  gas  a 
flarm  a  minute  bef ce  it'swanted,  and  the  whistle's  only 
just  ,blowed.    _^  '      -,  .    ^  ,  ' 

in.'ll'îL^]'*'^^'^"'^^^^'""^^"  ^""'  Samantha-nottnean. 
hrlîh  ^^/"'^"y'  «^«'•«ïy  stating  a  fact  ;  «a^d  clean  out  o', 

breath.    I  ve  mn  every  step  of  the  way  hère  frbm 

Jemin^y  An)i  what  d'ye  thiok?.  They  want  me  to  takd 
«nawomaaî*    ,■      '  ^Z^ 

f  im!i  ^^f7  ^  "  ^^  •^^'"^'^  ^^"°-  '  T*»«  éas  is  lit  bythis 
Z«  ur"^^  T  '*''?'  '^^  ""*»^y  kitchçn  and  the  twa 
women.    *- 1  woulda%jf  I  was  you.    Whoisshe?" 


.„rf> 


M 


.'M 


r 


* 


Sh,.!*^!^,^^  *»^^  Ws  Mrs,THopkïn8,  vagu^ 
fnA  ^tî^^^'^^i^'^  atthehotel  ;  but.there  ainVno  roo^ 
for  her  there.    Rogèrs  is  fuU  himself,  apçl  he^.aits  (^ 


„^-mc 


tV 


'•^ 


.  j£-^«  ?i- ^  lit  «. 


7 


îa       »WC^  PRESENTS  yEAfIMA   ANN, 

to  take  her  ;  says  she  àin't  no  bother  ;  says  she  ain't  that 

sort  ;  ,says  she's  a  lady.     That's  what  heLys  ;  but  don^t 

.     ^^^\-e\,Pratsichladies!    She's  one  of  that  drcus  l"/^ 

«^  t„r.  ^     .says  -Jernima  Ann,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  rap- 

And  she's  got  a  little  girl,"  goes  on  Mrs.  Hopkins 
m  an  irntat^  tone,  as  if  that  we,^  the  last  straw,  ànd 
nibbing  hernose  in  a  vexed  way,  "she's  a  J^m  Mimi- 
Somethmg,  and  she's  got  a  little  girl  !  Think  o'  that  ! 
Roèers  says  it's  ail  right.  Rdgers  says  ail  them  sortdoes 
that  way  ;  marnes  and  raises  families,  you  know  and 
stays  miss  right  along.  Thi,  one's  aVidow,  he  s^;^ 
And  he  wants  me  to  take  her  in  ;  says  he  khows  l've  got 

'    Vr^?"""^'  *",^  ^°"^^  "^^  '^  °^lî&«  a  charming  youni 
lady  and  a  dear  l.ttle  child-not  to  speak  of  an  old  neigh 

wLfbUinr'    ^^''    ^'^^  sec  'e.  ail  furder  first45 

kI^^^^T  ??"^^"'hy';<'oIet  hercome  !  "says  Jemima 
Ann.       I  should  love  to  know  a  circus  lady.     Next  to  a 

?n  fny  L';r "^  ^^  ^  °""  '^  '*^«  --^  ---'-  people 
'«noM/;l'^*'"'''"  ??^^- H°Pï^i°s  snappishlyresponds; 

-^  they  called  themselves,  too,  and  table  boarded 

l^~^'TTV.^'  ''°'*'^°'  ^'""^^  ^"*^  that-and  I  know 
aJl  about  it.    One  woman  was  more  trouble  in  a  da^ 

w2.r  ^""^'•^^  J^a°ds  in  a  week.    Always  a  hot  irou 
handkerchief  or  a  pair  of  stockings  in  a  basin,  and  cupt 

««rength  of  the  butter  and  the  weakness  of  the  cofFee. 
So  j  soon  sent  that  lot  packing  and  ma^e  up  my  min<i 


oii     K       u  ,*°*P  and^wateiTput  his: boots anïhli7 

^^'^^^'^  and  plenty  of  'em,  forihis  breakfast. 


vw 


\\. .  '^*"§¥^îiÉ'\ 


'/ 


I** 


ira/czr  PREsàNTs  y^MiuA  ann.    13 

and  though  he  may  gnimble  about  the  victuals,  he  don't 
^    go  mussm  with  his  linen  at  ail  sorts  of  improper  hours. 
won^t  hâve  the  circus  woman,  and  that's  ail  about  it 
•Did  you  tell  Mr.  Rogers  so?"asks  Jemima  Ann, 
rather  disapp9inted.  ^    " 

"Mr.  Rogers  is  a  yidyit  ;  he  would'n't  take  no  for  an 
answer.     '  l'IIstep  round  this  evenin','  said  the  grinning 
old  fool,  'and  brghi  the  lady  with  me,  Mrs.  Hopkins 
You  won.t  be  ableVo  say  no  to  fur—no  one  ever  is     I 
know  the  supper  and  six-and-twenty  foundry  faands  is 
lyin.  heavy  on  your  mind  at  the  présent  moment,'  says 
he,   and  your  nat'rel  sweefcness  of  disposition,' he  says. 
/  IS  a  tnfle  cruddled  by  'em.'    Yas  !     I  never  see  sich  an 
old  rattle-tongue.    But  he'U  see  !     Let  him  fetch  his-. 
Lords  sake,  Jemima  Ann  !  there's  them  men,  and  notjsa 
much  as  a  drop  of  tea  put  to  drof  f   Run  IHce  madi& 
light  the  gas  !"      "  , 

Jemima  Ann  literally  obeys.  She  Aies  up  stairs  like 
a  whirlwindi  sets  a  match  to  the  hall  gas,  and  has'it  blaz- 
mg  as  the  front  door  is  flung  wide,  and  the  foundry 
hands,  black,  hungry,  noisy,  muddy,  trbop  in,  and  up 
stairs,  or  out  back  to  the  gênerai  "  wash'us." 

h^J^r  \  °^  ™^'"«  '»*"«  for  talking,  for  thinfcing, 
hardlyfor  breathing-such  a  multiplicity  of  things  are 
to  be  done,  and  ail,  it  seems,  to  be  done  at  once.  Hot 
water,  soap,  towels— the  tocsin  df  war  rings  loudly  u» 
stairs  and  down,  and  in  their  varions  chambers.     Gas  is 

-  .^jced^chairs  placed-*ll  is  confusion,  Babel  condcnsed. 

^  _  Jj^ima  Ann  waits.    Coarse  jokes  rain  about  her,  a 

.40*00  voiccs  call  on  her  at  once,  demanding  a  dozcn  dif- 

erent  things,and  she  is~somethinged-at  intervais,  for 

f?n.'"PL?^"y  ^'^"^^  *'  Briareus.    But  mostly  it  ail 

^%  bnrmless   ana   lïâir-unTicàW.  ~  Sfii^ Ts~~î^eTti^^ 

vaguely  that  lost  circus  lady.    Since  she  may  never  bel  ' 

duchess,   nor  even,  in   ail  human  probability,  a  «  my 

ïadjr,   it  stnkes  Mrs.  Ho^kins'  nièce  the  next  b^t  tiàng 


V 


'U 


^ 


^    ! 


I^^J^^àkà'L'.W',?  „.„«.i  _i.;,'j';« 


'.ii'>Il 


^^'7  'V^W^T^ 


'•  .-s 


-xt-: 


/>;•■ 


iil* 


<.  „.  scariet  cloak,  to  wander  about  th« 

merrygreen  wood,"  to  tell  fortunes  at  fairs  to  sleen 
undera  cart  or  a  hedye  in  «tK»  u  *  i  .,-'''/"  ^^^^p 
stars"-,^>  „„„,^  Hu-s  "  Not  t^lZ  i^"'l"' 
least  bacoming  toher,  and  .to  sleep  und^a  h  JJ"  ,''"'' 

b.i:i:i?if4n  r-^d'''""'  '=  <•"'- -ï'™' 

ism     a,f,.        °       Çonducve  to  prématuré  rheuniat- 

gles-oh!that .«,«,«  bera  little  ahekd  of  peAetual  tïï 
'  ç7''"^^'/ough-looking  foundry  men.  ^ 

and  throwmg  radiant  stniles  to  the  audience.       ^      ^ 

'    be  thas  ligbtty  spolc:n  oQ^reTot^'^Att  syMe  r^ 
a  sculpter  ,.ould  pine  to  immortSize    n  ntw'J"  fue 

forln»7.h        ?.•"  '•'«'■<»«  herself,  she  would  at  least 
ïor  a  Uttle  hâve  lived  near  that  peerless  flower  •  bntTh- 

«le  same—and  it  may  never  be. 


th^^/S^brir'  ^-^--eT^arilydown  amid 


âî^/-'SAî^^-«' 


«'«.*i 


•  ^»  'it' 


'IN. 


i^ 


■sS^.lir-^'i,^ 


i-      *Tt 


'  -. 


:f 


^4^ 


WHICH  PRESENTS   yEMIMA   AtTN.      is 

of  tea.  A  plate  of  hot,  buttered  toast  is  made,  some 
ham  is  cooked,  "  which,"  says  Mrs.  Hopkins,  "  a  bit  of 
br'iled  ham  is  a  tasty  thing  for  tea,  and,  next  to  a  pickled 
eyester,  a  relish  Fin  uncommon  partial  to,  I  do  assure 
oa."  • 

J4nd  both  draw  a  long  breath  of  great  relief  as  they 
t^etheir  first  sip  of  the  cup  tnat  cheers.    ^     / 

"l'mthat  dead  beat,  Jim,"  observes  the  lady  of  the 
house,  "that  I  don't  know  whether  l'm  a  Mttin'  on  my 
heâd  or  my  heels,  as  true  as  yôù're  born  !" 

As  Mrs.  Hopkins  in  a  gênerai  way  sits  on  neither, 
this  observation  is  difficult  -to  answer  lucidly,  so  Jemima 
Ann  takes  a  thoughtful  bite  out  of  her  toast,  with  her 
head  plaintively  on  one  side,  and  answers  nothing. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  is  a  tall,  thin,  worried-looking  woman, 
with  "more  of  her  bony  construction  visible  than  is  con- 
sistent with  Personal  beauty,  and  wïth  more  knowledge 
of  her  4nternal  mechanism  than  is  in  any  way  corafort- 
able,  either  for  herself  or  Jemima  Ann. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  is  on  terms  of  ghastly  familiarity  with 
her  own  liver,  and  lungs,  and  spine,  and  stomach,  and 
takes  dismal  views  of  thèse  organs,  and  inflicts  the 
dreadful  diagnosis  on  her  long-suffering  nièce. 
'  "  Aunt  Hopkins,"  says  Jemima  Ann,  "  l'm  most  awful 
sorry  you  didn't  take  in  that  lady  from  Mr.  Rogers'.  I 
should  love  to  a  knowed  her." 

I*  Ah  !  I  dare  say,  so's  you  could  spend  yoyr  tirae  gad- 
din'  up  to  her  room,  and  losin'  your  morals,-and  ruinin' 
your  shoes.  No,  you  don't.  She'd  worrit  my  very  life 
out,  not  to  speak  Of  my  legs  and  temper,  in  two  days. 
And  a  child,  too— a  play-actin'  child  !  What  woqld  we 
do  with  a  child  in  this  house,  I  want  to  knoy.amon;^ 
twenty-six  foundry  hands,  and  not  time  inT  it  to  say 
*  Jack  RobiosQii  '~no,  nor  room  either  ?"^ 


Jemima  A«n  ogen^  her  lips  to  admit  the  point  of  her 


knife,  laden  wltl^^umb  and  gravy,  and  tp  remark  that 


VA  \ 


STAi       r,.    7i».i-i  .-V- 


.''<*iSi!*f.v,>%iiS 


'■'^< 


*;- 


r-T-- 


■k 


.'.*! 


x6 


PROFESSIONAL    LAD I ES. 


she  doesn't  want  to  say  «Jack   Robinson,"  when   the 
aooj;-bell  sharply  and  loudly  rings. 

"There  !"  cries  Mrs.  Hopkins,  exasperated.  "  I  knowed 
it  !  It  s  her  and  him  !  Doose  take  the  man,  hé  sticks 
l.ke  a  burr  !  Show  'cm  to  the  front  room,  Jim,"  says  her 
aunt  w:-athfully,  adjusting  her  back  hair,  «  and  tell  'etn 
111  beihere.  But  I  ain't  agoin'  to  stir  neither,"  adds 
Mrs  Hopkins  to  herself,  resuming  ber  toast,  «until  l've 
«taid  my  si;omach." . 

i    Jemima  Ann  springs  up  breathless  and  radiant  and 
hastens  to  the  door.  -, 

And  so,  like  one  of  her  cherïshed  héroïnes,  hastens. 
without  knowing  it,  to  her  "fate."  For  with  the  open- 
mg  of  the  Street  door  on  this  eventful  evening  of  her 
most  uneventful  life,  there  opens  for  poor,  hard-worked 
Jemima  Ann  the  one  romance  of  her  existence,  never 
quite  to  close  agaîn  till  that  life's  end. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  WHICH  WE  MEET  TWO  PROFESSIONAL  UVDIES, 

GUSTof  October  wind,  A  dash  of  October 
rain,  a  black,  October  sky,  the  smiling  face  of 
a  stout  little  man,  waiting  on  tbe  threshold— 

.  ~r ^^^^  Street  Jemima  Ann  as  she  opens  the 

dooi-,    A  carriage  stands  just  outside,*its  twin  lamps 
beamiiig  redly  in  the  blackness. 
V .       *"Ah.  Miss  Jemima, good  evening,"  says  this  smilin*' 
¥      apparition,  "although  it  is  anything  ^/ a  good         " 


_"     —         —  '»"  L  •  **"/"""&  f^f  a  gooa  evening. 

nrosr  nncommon  bar  éveliîng,  T  sfiouTÏ  s^,  E^^^^^^ 

How  are  you,  and  how  is  Aunt  Hopkins,  nbw  that  the 

•"PPCfand  the  six-and-twenty  are  oflf  hermind?    And, 


>^ 


PROFESSIONAL    LàDIES. 


17 


Js  she  in  ?  But  of  course  she's  in,*'  says  Mr.  Rogers,  wait- 
ing  for  no  answers.  "  Wbo  would  be  out  that  colild  be 
in  such  a  nigiit?  Just  tell  her  l'm  hère,  Jemima  Ann— 
corne  by  appointment,  y  ou  knoM^  ;  and  there's  a  lady  in 
the  hack  at  the  dôor,  a«</  a  little  girl.  You  go  and  tell 
'Mrs.  Hopkins,  Jim,  my  dear,  and  l'il  fetch  the  lady  along 
to  the  parlor.  One  p^ir  front;  isn't  it?  Thanks  !  Don't 
mind  me  ;    I  know  the  way." 

Evidently  he  (ïoes,  and  stands  not  on  the  order  of  his 
going. 

"Run  along,  Jemimy,"  he  says,  pleasantly,  "and  call 
the  aunty.  l'U  fetch  the  lady  up  stairs.  Now,  then, 
mademoiselle,"  he  cftlls,  going  to  the  door  of  the  car- 
nage ;  "and  if  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  step  in  out  of 
the  rain,  l'U  carry  Petite  hère.  Up  stairs,  please.  Wait 
a  minute.     Now,  then,  this  way." 

AU  this  time  Jemima  Ann  stands,  eyes  and  mouth 
ajar,  looking,  listening  with  breathless  interest 

Mr.  Rogers,  gentlemanly  proprietor  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  Hôtel,  further  down  the  street,  assists  a  Jady  out 
of  the  chariot  at  the  door,  says  "  Corne  along,  little  'un,** 
lifts  a  child  in  his  arms,  and  leads  the  way  jauntily  up  to 
the  "  one  pair  front" 

"This  is  the  place,  Mademoiselle  Mirai,"  he  say^- 
somewhat  suddenly,  "Mrs.  Hopkins'  sélect  boarding> 
house  for  single  gentlemen." 

"  Faugh  I  "  says  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  curling  dis^ 
gustedly  an  extremely  pretty  nose  ;  "  it  smells  of  comed 
beef  and  cabbage,  and  ail  thé  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  nasty  dinners  cooked  in  it  the  past  year." 

And  indeed  a  most  ancient  and  '  cabbage-like  odor 
does  pervade  the  halls  and  passages  pi  the  Hôtel  Hop- 
kins.- It  is  one  of  those  unhappy  houses  in  which  smells 
(tlïîT^TâyefsJ  âMënd,  imd  the  lôdgéra  în  the  àttîc  caS~ 
alw^ys  tell  to  a  tittle  what  is  going  on  in  the  kitchen.-  ,  - 
"  Mrs.  Hopkins  can  get  up  a  nice  little  dinnçr»  for  ^1 
Uiat,"  says  Mr.  Rogers.    "She's  donc  It  for  me  beforo 


\'i'ir" 


'■Si? 


18 


PROPESSIONAL    lADTÉS. 


M* 


now,  when  the  cook  has  left  me  in  the  lurch.  5he'll  do 
U  for  you,  Mam'selle  Mimi.  You  won't  be  served  with 
boiled  beef  and  cabbage  while  you're  bere,  let  me  tell 
you.  And  she's  as  clean  as  silver.  This  is  the  parler  ; 
tàke  a  chair.  And  this  is  Jemima  Ann,  Mrs.  Hopkins' 
nièce,  and  the  idol  of  six-and-twenty  stalwart  young  men. 
Jemimy,  niy  love,  let  me  présent  you— Mademoiselle 
11.  Mimi  Trillon,  tl^e  famous  bare-baçk  rider  and  trapèze 

performer,  of  ^  whom  ail  the  world  has  heard,  and  La 
Petite  Mademoiselle  Trillon,  the  younger." 

Mr.  Rogers  waves  his  hand  with  the  grâce  of  a  court 
Chamberlain  and  the  smile  of  an  angel,  and  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  Trillon  laughs  and  bows.     It  ^s  a  musical,  merry 
little  laugh,  and  the  lady,  Jemimy  Ann  thinks,  in  a 
bewildered  way,  is  the  most  brilliant  and  beautiful  heç 
eyes  hâve  ever  looked  on.    The  Duchess  Isoline  herself 
was  less  fair  !     She  feels  quite  dazzled  and  dizzy  for  a 
moment,  anything  beautiful  or  bright  is  so  far  butside 
her  pathetically  ugly  life.    She  is  conscious  of  a  face, 
jmâll,  tather  pale  just  now,  looking  oxitîeï  a  coquettish 
|.  ,  little  bonnet;  of  profuse  rippling  hair  of  "flaxen  fairness 
\vT ,  wavmg  low  on  a  low  forehead  ;  of  a  dress  of  dark  silk, 
that  emits  perfume  as  she  moves  ;  of  a  seal  jacket  ;  of 
two  large  blue-bell  eyes,  laughing  out  of  thei  loveliness  of 
that  "flower  face." 

"Oh!"  she  says,  under  her  breath,  and  stands  and 
stares. 

Mlle.  Mimi  laughç  again.    Her  teeth  are  as.nearly 
hfce"pearls"as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  little  white  teeth   ^ 
to  be.    She  can  aflford  to  laugh,  and  knows  it.  '"' 

"Now,  then,  Jemimy  !  "  cries  the  brisk  voice  of  Mr. 
Rogers.  «  I  know  you  are  lost  in  a  trance  of  admiration! 
We  ail  are,  bless  you,  when  we  first  meet  Mam'selle 


«" 


#^"»*-  ^ger^^"^less.  mf  ^<»r  girirHi>tt8ittess-15ëf6rfe^ 
plcasure,  and  -business  has  brought  us  bere  tq-ni^ht. 
Càll  your  aunt,  and  let  fis  get  it  oven"  '<     \ 

"  Hère  is  Aunt  Samantby  "  responds  Jemima  :  àta^ 


■'I    :'-■■ 


*»'■■<»* 


'"^-',  ;  "  .^'"'  '^ 


.> 


PROFESSIONAl    LABIES. 


19 


it  that  moment  enters  unto  them  Mrs.  Hopkîns»  her 
'"  stomach  staid/'  and  considerably  humanized  by  the 
Ipnellowing  influence  of  ^ndry  cups  of  tea,  and  quanti- 
ties  of  bot  toast  and  broiled  ham. 

Mr.  Rogers  rises,  reçoives  her  with.-cfFusion,  présents 
tio  her  the  Mesdemoiselles  Trillon,  mother  and  daughter, 
ajnd  Mam'selle  Mimi  holds  out  oSie  gray-gloved  hand, 
vtrith*  a  charming  smile,  and  says  some  charming  words 
q|f  first^reeting.  /'"^o 

j  Jomima  Ânn  watches  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  She 
lioQiés — oh  !  she  hopes  Aunt  Samantha  will  not  steel  her 
aeart,  and  boit  her  front  door  against  this  radiant  vision 
of  jpolden  hair,  and  silk,  and  seal. 

,i  ;^ut  Âunt  Samantha  is  not  impressionable.  Long 
y^rs  of  foundry  hands,  of  struggles  with  her  liver  and 
other  orgrans,  of  much  taxes  and  many  butcher  bills,  hâve 
turned  to  bittemess  her  natural  milk  of  human  kindness. 
and  she  casts  a  cojd  and  disapproVing  g^ance  on  thé 
blonde  Mimi,  and  bobs  a'stiff  little  courtesy,  and  sits 
down  severcly  on  the  extrême  edge  of  a  chair. 

*'  So  so|;i;y  to  intrude,"  says  the  sweet  voice  of  Mlle. 
Mimi,  in  coaxing  accents,  ^''dear  Mrs.  Hopkins,  at  this 
abnormal  hour.  It  is  really  quite  too  dreadful  of  me,  I 
admit  But  what  was  I  to  do  ?  Mr.  Rogers'  hotei-is 
quite  full,  and  even  if  it  were  not,.there  are  reasons" — 
a  pause,  a  sigh,  the  blue-bell  eyes  cast  a  pathetic  glance^  ^ 
first  at  her  child,  then  appealingly  at  Mr.  Rpgers,  then 
more  appealingly  at  frigid  Mrs.  Ifopkins — "  there  is  a 
person  zx.  the  hotelwith  whom  I  cannot  possibly  asso- 
ciate.  I  am  a  mother,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hopkins  ;  that  dear 
child  is  my  only  treaâure.  In  my  abseqpe  there  would 
be  no  one  at  the  hotèl  to  look  after  her.  I  can  tuA  leave 
her  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  ladies  bf  our  company. 


"SoTamTîëre.    Tou  wîITtakè  compassion  uponiis,  I  àm;; 
sure  " — clasping  the  gray-glbved  hands — "and  afiford  U3 
hospitality  during  our  brief  stay  in  this  toWn.    Snow* 


kJ 


H' 


V  ""'»" 
^ 


tf  :' 


ao 


JPROFESSIONAL    ZAD/ES, 


\4. 


V'      < 


[  ?s  >- 


>c 


hall,  corne  hère.    Go  directly  to  this  nice  lady.  and  fiar 
•  Hpw  do  you  do  ?"•  •"  '» 

"  Won't!"  says  Mlle.  Trillon,  tbe  younger— she  is  a 
young  person  of  some  three    or  four   years— in  the 
promptest  way  ;  "  her's  not  a  nice  lady.    Her's  a  narsv 
uarsy  lady!"  ; 

The  child  is  almost  prettier  than  the  mother,  if  pret- 
tier  were  possible.    Sh^  is  a  duplicate  in  little  rose  anU 
,    hly  skin,  flaxen  curJs,  blue-bell  eyes,  sweet  little  mouth 
-    that  to  look  at  is  to  long  to  kiss.  v      ' 

A  wild  impulse  is  on  Jemima  Ann  to  snàtch  her^  bp 
and  smo^her  her  wUh  kisses,  but  something  in  the  blue- 
bell  eyes  warned  her  such  liberties  would  not  be  safe. 

"  For  shame,  you  bad  Snowball  !"  says  Mlle.  Mimî, 
shocked,  while  Mr.  Rogers  chuckles  in  appréciation  of 
the  joke,  and  Jemima  Ann  holds  out  a  titnid  hand  of 
conciliation,  and  smiles  her  most  winning  smile.    The 
turquois  eyes  turn  slo^ly,  and  scan  her  with  the  slow, 
steâdfast,  terrible  look  of  chUdhood,  from  head  to  foot 
Evidently  the  reéult  is  unsatisfactôiy.     She,  too^  is  a 
"  narsy  lady."    The  disdainful  sprite  turns  away  with  a 
little  w<>«^of  disdain,  and  stands  slim  and  silent  at  Mr. 
Rogers'  knee.    For  Jemima  Ann,  she  had  fallen  in  lové 
at  first  sight,  and  from  that  hour  until  the  last  of  her  life 
is  Mlle.  Snowball's  abject  slave. 

"Now,don't  youthink  you  can  roanage  it,  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins,"  says,  suavely,  Mr.  Rogeb;  "there's  such  a  lot  of 
them  at  my  place,  and  it  may  hç  only  for  a  week  ;  and, 
as  Mlle.  Mimi  s^ys,  it  is  for  the  chilci's  sake.  It  won't  ' 
do  to  hâve  her  running  about  wild,  while  mamma  is 
away  at  the  circus,  you  know— eh,  little  Snowball  ?  And 
here's  our  Jemima  can  keep  an  eye  to  her  just  as  well  as 
not,  Fhile  the  other's  on  the  dipner.  Not  a  mite  of 
ïrouble,  are  you,  Snowball?    Quite  a  grown-up  young 

-kdy  lir  t;vcryîhing  but  iœr  aûd  rnchès.    Corne,  Mri: ' 

Hopkins,  say  Yes." 

^  "  Ao<J  I  will  mf  stay  in  tbe  s^me  bouse  with  Madame  :  V. 


*«*>-* \»  JF^    V-  -iVi 


\ 


^■;^:yig->''r-i  j:^" 


%iià)f. 


PROFESSIONAL    LABIES. 


•  I 


Olympe!"  exclaims,   suddenly,   Mlle.   Mimi,  her  bluo 
eyes  emitting  one  quick,  sharp,  lurid  flash.     And  hère,  at 
last,  as  it  dawns  on  Mrs.  Hopkins,  is  the  "cat  out  of  the 
bag  ;  "  the  true  reason  of  this  late  visit  and  pétition.     In 
•  the  circus  company  arç  two   leading  ladies— Madame 
Olympe  and   Mlle.   Mimi— and  war  to  the  knife  has 
naturally,  from  first  to  last,  been  their  motto.     They  are 
1  ivals  in  everything  ;  they  disagree  in  ejîerything.    They 
hâte  each  other  with  a  heartiness  and  vim  that  bofders, 
at  times,  on  frenzy  !     Ail  that  there  is  of  the  most  blonde 
and  sprightly  is  Mlle.  Mimi  ;   a  brunette  of  brunettes, 
dashing,  dark,  and  dangerous,  is  Madame  Olympe.    Mimi 
professes  to  be  French,  and  was  "raised"  in  the  back 
slums  of  New  Vork.     Olympe  /V  French— a  soi-disant 
grisette  of  Mabille.    Paris  is  written  on  her  face.    And 
two  tomcats  oh  the  tiles,  at  dead  of  night,  never  fought 
for  mastery  with  tongue  and  claws  as  do  the  lovely  Mimi, 
the  superb  Olympe.    ' 

"Ladies!  ladies!"  the  long  suflFering  manager  is 
wont  to  remonstrate,  on  the  verge  of  bursting  into  tear^  - 
^'how  can  you,  you  knqw  ?  Your  little  hands  were  never 
made  to  teareaçh  other's  eyes  !  Upon  my  soûl  I  wcmder 
at  you— French  and  everything  as  you  are.  And  l've 
always  heard  the  French  beat  the  d— 1  for  politeness. 
But  it  ain't  polije  to  call  éach  other  ïiars  and  hussies, 
and  heave  hairbnishes  at  each  other.  N'ow.  l'm  blest  if 
itis!" 

An  thiè  time  Mrs.  Hopkins  sits,  upright,  grîm,  rigid, 
virtuous,  on  the  slippcry  edge  of  lier  horse-hair  chair; 
"  No,"  Written  in  capital  letters  in  her  eye  of  stone,  on 
her  brow  of  adamant,  when  suddenly,  and  most  unex«v 
pectedly,  the  child  with  the  odd  name  comes  to  the, 
rescue.  Snowball  fisçes  her^  azuré  eyes  on  the  frozen 
^sage  ;  some  faaci<iation  i&^lor  Jier  thei^^t 


ripples  ail  at  0aèc  the  swçet.  tinkle  of  à  child's  merry 
laugh;  she  toddles  over  t<^  her  side,  ancl  slips  her  rose- 
leaf  hand  into  the  ï^jÊk  old  palm. 


„>>  7<^ 


*  Sa  .    'i:»k„j,',i^l\jS  ■>«-' 


Liiv  J!i.ï1^  ^È**UÎ.  iTfri.^  rf- 


u 


'l' 


»a 


^ 


professiOnal  ladies. 


vr 


W-iv 


r 

likes   you.     'Nobal 


L..^     »«>«.4. 


"Not  a  narsy  lâdy.     'Noball 
seepy.    Her  wants  to  go  to  bed  " 

kins    involuntanly.     Even  Achilles,  it  will- be  reftiëîS:' 

Samànthas  1?  in  her  heels  or  in  her  heart,  Snowball  has 

oundit     ButthentofindpeopleVheartsandkerp  he™ 

is  a  trick  of  Snowball's  ail  her  life-long.  ^       ™ 

;'.Seepy,  seepy,"  réitérâtes  Snowball  with  pretty  ini- 

"  Yôu  must  put  us  up,  you  see,"  says  mamma.  «  Corne 
my  dear  madayi,  it  will  be  inhuman  to  refuse  " 

It  will  Mrs.  Hopkins  feels  she  cannot  say  "Nd-" 
and  Mrs.  Hopkins  also  feels  she  will  repent  in  wr^th  and 
b  ttemess,  saying  «  Ves."  She  casts  one  scathing  giance 
at  serene  Mr.  Rogers,  and  says,  "  Well,  yes,  then,"  with 
th<?%ery  worstgrace  in  the  world. 

fulW«  ^T"^^^^  ^^^^  •"  ^"^^  °"'  •^^™'"^*  Ann  in  the 
fullpess  of  her  heart.  "  Oh,  you  little  darling,  corne  to 
me,  and  let  me  get  you  rëady  for  bed  !" 

«anrwliri!^^  °*''^'  ""m^ f ''^'  SnoWball,"  says  Mlle.  Mimi, 

youNimrbrushedbeforeyougo.tosleep.  Eversomany 
thanks  Mrs.  Hopkins,  though  that  yes  had  rather  an  un^ 
cordial  tone     Rogers  --she  uses  no  prefix-"  the  trunks 

in  the  cab.  Send  them  up.  I  won't  trouble  you  for  sud- 
perto.mght,Mrs.  Hopkins;  wehad^  snac/atth,ho"e^. 
But  get  my  roôm  ready  as  soon  as  you  can.  There's  a 
goodsoul    WeVebeenonthegoallday,and-:iamdead    ' 

A  swift  and  subtle  change  hâs  corne  over  Mlle.  Mimi 
Her  pleadiipg  lady-like  manner  drops  from  her  as  a  ^rl 
'^'''%^^^^J9P^)^me^  ring  Qf  comma^ 


r.7       ^WucB^oT  vulgaiity,  that . 

t[  ^^.^e&Gutf  bût  cannot  defin& 


Hcpkins  is  quick  to  feel  and 


\_ 


J  ^ 


r- 


\jX* 


-fi-^^^i*.-.- 


•^ 


^ 


PROFESSIONAL    LABIES. 


n 


Ke\jjpa  bcd  for  Spowball  on  a  sofa  or  lounge 
ie,".5^^ays  to  Jcmima  Ann,  "  and  don't  let  hcr 


'«Majcé 
near  niine 
--  hâve  "tôo  much  milk.    ^he  is  a  perfect  little pig  for  coun- 
try  miHc,  and  l  don't  wànt  her^Aô  get  fat.     Ihate  Oabby 
children.    And  l'U  lie  on  this  couch  while  you're  gettirig 
my  l'oom  ready,  I  reaUy  and  truly  am  fit  to  drop.     Gdod-"^ 
-    night,  Rogers;  tell   Olympe,   jyith'my  compliments,  I 
hopé  she  meafas  to  go  to  bed  sober  this  first  night." 

Her  musical  laugh  foUows  Mr.  Rogers  down-stairs. 
Then  sheglides  out  of  her  sèal-skin  likaa  beautiful  little 
"serpent  slipping  its  skin,  throw^  off  tlfe  coquettish  bon- 
net, stretclies  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  before  her  hostess 
or  nièce  are  fairly  out  of  the  room,  is  fast  asleep. 
,  "  Well,  I  never  !"  says  Mrs.  Hopkins,  drawing  a  long 
breath.  "  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  Jemimà  Ann,  I  do- 
assure  you  I  never  T^  •"  „  . 

"•Noball  seepy,  'Noball  hundry,  want  her  bed  aad 
milk,  want  go  to  bed,"  pipes  plaintivelythe  'chilâ. .      ' 

Jemima  gathers  her  up  in  her  arms,  and  ventures  to 
kis^  the  satin  smooth  cheélT.  ^ 

.  "  You  dear  little  pet,"  she  says,  «  you  shall  hâve  your 
bread  and  milk,  and  go  to  bed  in  two  minutes.  Ob,  you 
pretty  little  love  !  I  never  saw  anything  half  so  lôvelv 
asyouinm^life^    J  ~  -^ . 

"  Land's  sake,  J^niimy  Ann,  don't  spile  the  yôung 
one  !"  says,  irritabl^i-j  her  aunt.  «  Hqjndsome  is  as  hand- 
some  does/  is  a  tru^  motta  the  world  over,  and  if  her  or 
her  mar  does  handsomé,  l'm  a  Dutchman.  «Gobd-  ' 
mght,  Rogers,  and. tell  Alimp  to  go  to  bed  sober  this 
first  night  ;!  pretty  sort  o'  talk  that  for  a  tempérance 
boârdm  -house.  ijhere  !  get  that  sleepy  baby  somethin'  " 
and  put  her  to  bed.  i;il  go  and  fix  Miss  FlyaWay's  room. 
before  the  men  coafie  in,  and  find  her  sleepin*  hère  and 
make  fools  of  thenlselves." 

-Awt  ^^m  inatffiut  and  gran^^^        but  in  for  It    / 
now,  Mrs.  Horkins  goes  to  put  her  best  bedroom  in  or- 
•'®°*^°^  =»»•"««  Snowball  down  to  the   diningw 


■..T 


V» 


•'■î 


"•*?" 


4  - 


•    4r 


f^ 


h 


"<  ;■ 


;-    I 


à 


.i 


^•%lr 


room. 


W£    GO    !tO    THE    CIRCi/S. 


The  flaxen  head  lies  agMinst  her^houiderrehe 
drowsy  lids  sway  bver  the  sweet  biMe.eyes,  the  véry  iios 
arc  apart  and  iewy.  Oh  !  how  lovely  she  is,  how  lovtfy. 
how  lovely,  thinks  Jemima  Ann.  in  a  sort  of  rupture! 
Oh  !  ifshe  could  but  keep  this  beautiful  baby  with  her 
lorevçr  and  ever  ! 

-  Atsight  ,of  the  bread  and  milk,  Snowball  wakes /"^^ 
cnough  to  partake  of  that  refreshment.  Btit  shé  sUe 
déclines  conversation,  and  the  pretty  head  staVjiEàthe 
long  hght  curls  are  bèing  braided,  and  her  clotl«iTOcen 
off  and  she  is  sound  again,  when  Jemima  bears  lier  ten.' 
derly  up  to  the  little  extempore  bed  Aunt  Samantha  has 
E^ee  's  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  and^azes  at  her  în  a  rapturc  as 
"She  looks  like  a  duchL's  daughter !  She  looks 
br^lth"  ""  '  SamantTiy  !"   she  says,  under  her 

"Yas!"  cri^^unt  Samantha,  in  bltter  scorn  "I 
nevçr  s«î  an  élTel-nq  more  did  yôu.  And  if  you  did. 
I  don  t  behevé  they'd  a  rid  at  a  circus.  Nove  go  down 
and  shake  up  t'other  angel  in  the  parlor,  and  tell  her  she 
can  tumble  into  bed  as  soon  as  she  likes.  And  mark  my 
words,  Jemima  Ann,"  concludes  Mrs.  Hopkins,  solemolr 
prophétie,  «that  woman  will  give  us  trouble,  suchas  we 
ain  t  had  m  many  a  lon^  day,  afore  w^'re  rid  of  her  !" 


^"     CHAPTEl 
IN  WHICH  WE  GÔf  TO  THE  CIRCUS. 


"!# 


,rf 


IT  isk^the  evenîng  of  another  day  ;  crîsp,clear,' 

pool,    The  town.hall  has  tolled,  seven,  and 

ail  the  town,  in  its  Sunday  best.  is  trooping^ 

,.  ^fi^yly^ttfihéjBrreat  common  on  the  outskirts, 

IWHere  £K  huge  circus  tant  isxrected,  where  flags  fL% 


Pliait  •'* 


u 


:^'^f 


^  |<?    TO   TME    €IMCV$.  ^ 

and  dnwns  beat^and  brait  In«truin<înt«  bl«i[e.  and  great 
doings  wiU  be  donc  to-night. 

A  grcat  ropc  strctchcs  from  theiccntcr  of  the  coinmon  , 
to  the  top  of  the  tent,  quite  agiddy  hcight,  and  the  celc 
bratcd  tight-rope  dancer,  MUe.  Mimi,  is  to  walk  up  thia 
bcfore  the  performance,  giving  a  gratis  taste  ot  herA 
qualities  to  an  admiring  world. 

.^ii^^^'lT^'^  an<^  visible  signa  ôf  the  inward  and 
tô  be-paid-for  èraçes  going  on  wi]thln,  are  there  a#^welj. 
Every  dcad  wai,  every  fence  ail  over\be  town,  la 
placarded  with  hug«^  posters,  announcing  il  iofty  Ictters  ' 
of  gorgeous  côlors,  the  wonderful  doinga  Wtçl>eheld 
for  ihe  small  sum  of  fifty  cents;  chijidSen  lialf  price 
clei^men  free  I  .  pwi  price, 

Pictiïres'of  ali  the  animais  whose  ancestWa  came 
over  Mi  the  Ark  with  Noah  and-family.  togeZ-  wUh 
MoT'^'  ?t  '^*  unparalleled  Daughter  ^of  the  Désert. 
Madame  O  ympé.  on  ber  fiery  steed  Whlrlwind,  of^hô  - 
danng  and.f«irless  tnipezist  and  tight-rope  dâncer,  Hwl 

u;    tt^I^t "  '^^î^*^"*^  *l«ft  *«  onehand'^^  the  Bouril 

7.h  "^p""  °.'  ^^o^^™'*'  ^"  the  thriUing  o^e-act  d«w«i 
of  the  "  Peruvian  Princess."  «•««»» 

ïhc  portraits  of  the  rival  stars  attract  mitch  adnrira-  ' 
tion  and  coinmcnt^inrather  a  coarse  and  highiy^olared 
State  of  art,  it  must  be  admitted,  but  sweetly  pretty  luid  ' 
simpenng  al    the  same,  displaying  a  great  redundaacy 
of  ^Imon-colorèd  }^  and  arms,  and  pronouncddlh^     : 
^osejho  hâve  seeiGUe  fair  originals;  sç^king  l^  ^ 

And  now  nll  the  town  is  to  see  themi  the  diari# 
races,  the  Bounding'Prothers,  thelFairv  Queefa    thi 

It  iii4tC.I,„.  ^„„L  l««h  yciiow  twilight  ;  the  jrorid 


■} 


\  4 


'■^    tj 


^ 


*v  -.- 


->, .  '^ 


':% 


f- 


'*, 


ï"r  *^  '^.J? 


è6 


jA»ifj 


'V^i'  5^  '' 


ir^    Gî<3    TO    THE    CIRCUS. 


moon  >siniliDg  down,  as  if  it,  too,  had  come  ouf  ewpresslr 
iô  go  to  the  circus. 

Everybodyis  in  fine  spirits,  there  is  rouch  laughter 
and  good-humored  chaffing,  there  are  troops  and  troops 
of  children— children  of  a  largèr  growth/too,  wbo  aflfect 
to  treat  the  whole'aflfair  with  oflF-hand,  good-natured 
contempt— only  come  to  look  after  the  youngones,  you 
know—old  boys  and  girls,  who  in  t^eir  secret  soûls  are 
as  keqp  for  the  sport  as  any  nirie-year-old  of  them  ail. 

An  immense   throng  is  gathered    on  the   common, 
wàtching  with  beating  hearts  and  bated  breath,  for  theil- 
first  taste  of  rapture,  the  free  sight  of  Mlle.  Mimi  walk- 
ing  up  the  rope.    And  amid  this  thpong,  in  her  Sunday 
"things*'  quite  «  of  a  tremble  "  with  joyous  ^pectancy 
stands  Jemima  Ann,  waiting  with  the  deepest  interest  of 
ail  for  the  first  glimpse  in  her  public  capacity  of  the  fair 
performer  she  has  the  honor  of  knowing  in  private  life. 
The  band  stands  at  ease  giving  the  public  tantalizing 
little  tastes  of  its  quality,  working  up  the  suspense  of 
small  boys  to  an  agonizing  pitch,  laughing  and  talking 
to  another,  as  if  this  magical  sort  of  thing  were  quite 
every-day  life  to  them,  when  suddenly  everybody  is  gal- 
vanized,  every  neck  is  stràined,  an  indescribable  mur- 
mur  and  rush  goes  through  the  crowd  :  "  Oh,  hush  ! 
Hère  she  is!    Ohrma  !  isn't  she  lovely  ?    Ob-h-h  !"    It  is 
a  long-drawn,  rapturous  breath.  - 

'  A  vision  has  appeared— a  vision  ail  gold  and  glitter, 
ail  gauze  and  spangles»  ail-  rosy  floating  skirts,  a  little 
flag  in  each  hand,  bare  white  arms,  streaming  yellow 
curls,  twinkling  pink  feet,  rosy,  smiling  face  !  The 
band  strikes  up  a  spirited  strain,  and  up,  and  up,  and 
up  âoats  the  fairy  in  rose  and  spangles. 

*  Every  throat  stretches,  every  eye  follôws,  every  breath 
seems  suspended,  every  mouth  is  agape.     Profound  still- 


.  Tcigns.    -And  up,  âfid^up,  and  ûp  stîir¥6ats~tHë 

rose-pink  vision  ;  and  now  she  stands- on  the  diz2y  top, 
ft  pink  star  agaîhçt  thç  blue  sky,  waving  hçr  flags,  ^nd 


<-N 


J>^ 


•  ,.  >'^.-*.i' 


m 


rr 


out*  empresslf 


;='#«'':    "   . 


WE    GO    TO    THE    CIECÛS.  a; 

kissing  hands  to  the  breathless  crowd  below  !  Now,  sho 
descends  slowly,  slowly,  and  slowly  plays  the  band,'and 
the  tension  is  painful  to  ail  thèse  good,  sirtiple  soûls. 

,  A  sort  of  involuntary  gasp  goes  through  them  as 
with  a  light  buoyant  bound  she  is  on  terra  firma,  bowing 
right  and  left,  and  vanishing  into  the  tent  like  the  fairy 
she  is. 

"  Oh-h-h  !  wasn't  it  lovely  !  Oh,  ma,  she  is  just  too 
sweet  for  anything  !  Oh,  pa  !  do  let  us  hurxv  in  and  get 
a  good  seat.  ^  Was  it  Olympe  ?  No,  it  wasn't,  it  was  the 
other  one,  Mamzel  Mimi.  Oh  !  l'm  being  scrooged  to 
death  !  Pa,  do  let  us  hurry  la— don'tyou  see  everybody 
is  going .'" 

Jemima  Ann  goes  with  the  rest.     It  is  thç  rarest  of 

rare  things  for  her  to  be  off  duty,  but  Aunt  Samantha 

hao  relented  for  once,  and  her  nièce  is  hère,  fàirly  palpi. 

tatîng  with  expectant  rapture.  / 

,411   the  boarders,   washed  and  shining  with   good 

•  hilmor,  muc^  friction,  and  yellow  soap,  in  brave  array 

muster  strong,  and  kindly  little  Mr.  Doolittle  has  meekly 

presented  "Miss  Jim"  with  a  ticket.   'So  she  is  swept 

onward  and  inward,  with  the  crowd  into  the  great  canvas 

arena,  and   presently  finds  herself  perched  on  an  ex- 

quisitely  uncomfortable  shelf,  her  knees  on  a  level  with 

her  chin,  gazing  with  awe  at  the  vast  sawdust  ring  and 

the  red  curtain  beyond,  whence  it  is  whispered  the  per- 

formers  wîll  presently  émerge. 

Then  she  glances  about  her— yes,  there  are  the  board- 
ers, there  i»  Mr.  Rogers,  there  is  the  butcher  and  his 
family,  there  is  the  undertaker  and  his  wife,  there  is  the 
family  grocer  ànd  his  seven  sons  and  daughters,  there 
are  quite  numbers  of  ladies  and  gentlçmen  she  knows. 
And  ail  over  the  place  there  are  swarms  of  children, 
çhildrepb&yondaoypossibtiityirfOTinputation.  Ar^ï^ 
of  sawdust  and  orange-peel,  a  pervading  sensé  of  hilarity 
and  peanuts  is  in  the  atmosphère,  tiie  band  plays  as  if  il 


fît*  wô^aC«-~»    • 


'.!■ 


»cçÇî^ï=a==-=^ 


:^^%:^'?î-,i9i^'' 


tt^ff^r-c 


-\k 


m 


m-: 


•8 


ÎV£    GO    TO    THE    CIRCUS. 


would  burst  itself  with  enthusiastn,  and  the  evening  per- 
formance triumphantly  begins. 

Long  after  this  festive  nig^t,  Jemima  Ann  tries  to 
recall,|dispassionately,  ail  she  has  seen  in  this  her  first 
glimpsè  of  wonder-land,  but  it  is  ail  so  splendid,  so  rapid, 
so  bewildering,  to  a  mind  used  only  to  underground 
kitchens,  and  the  society  of  black  beetles,  and  blacker 
foundry  hànds,  that  her  dazzled  brain  fails  to  grasp  it 
with  any  cohérence.  There  are,  horses — good  gracious  ! 
such  horses  as  one  could  hardly  imaHne  existçd  out  of 
the  Arabian  Nights  ;  horses  that  dan<^  polkas^^iM^  jigs, 
that  pu^  the  kettle  on,  that  listen  to  thç  clowti,  ana  «nder- 
stood  every  word  he  said,  horses  that  laàg^ê^,  horses 
that  made  courtesies  to  the  audience,  horses  that  stood 
on  their  hind  legs,  that  knelt  down,  that  jumped  through 
hoops,  and  over  banners.  Jemima  Ann  would  not  hâve 
been  surprised  to  see  a  peg  fumed  in  their  side,  and 
behold  them  spread  their  wings  and  soar  to  the  ceiling. 
Only  thej  didn*t.  And  then  the  clown,  with  his  startling, 
curious,  and  white  visage,  his  huge,  grinning  mouth,  and 
amazing  noSe,  his  funny  dress,  and  funnier  retorts  to  the 
exasperated  ring-master — Jemima  Ann  nearly  died  of 
laughing  at  him.  Only  to  hear  his  jovial  "  Hère  we  are 
again  !"  was  worth  the  whole  fifty  cents  ;  so  said  the 
good  people  about  her,  laughing  till  they  cried,  and  so, 
Wî^h  ail  her  hcart,  said  Jemima  Ann. 

But  this  was  only  a  little  of  it.  When  Mlle.  Mîmî 
l)eàred,  more  gauzy,  more  spangly,  more  lovely  even 
thîn  outsid'e,  careening  round  and  roiind,  on  four  fiery 
bare-backed  steeds,  in  that  breathless  manner  that  your 
head  swam,  and  your  respiration  came  in  gasps,  thtn  the 
enthusiasm  rose  to  fever  beat,  if  you  lîke  !  They  shouted, 
they  stamped,  they  applauded  the  very  knobs  oflf  their 


■walking-sticks,  and  Jenrima  Ann,  "fahrt"  with  bliss^  shuts 
her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  feels  she  is  in  the  mad  vor- 
tex  of  high  life  at  last,  feels  that  she  is  H  ving  a  ehapter  out 
of  one  of  her  oVo  wtekly  "dreadfuls."    How  beautiful 


iVV;  . 


^t' 


.4i.(-_i 


W^JrtJt^  t 


f  ,  ^^^ 


W£    GO    TO    THE    CIRCITS. 


29 


Mimi  looks,  as  she  sweeps  by,  smiling,  painted,  radiant  ! 
And  now — it  is  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten — Mimi 
sees  her,  smiles  at  her— yes,  in  full  tilt  pauses  to  smile  at 
hcr  and  throBLJjier  a  kiss  from  her  finger  tips  î  Ail  heads 
turn,  ail  eyes  fix  wonderingly,  enyiously  on  the  crimson 
visage  of  Jemima  Arm. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  asks  in  a  tone  of  awe  those 
nearest,  and  Jemima  Ann  glows  and  responds  • 

*'Yes." 

It  is  a  proud  moment;  it  is  a  case  of  "greatness 
thrust."  People  scan  her  as  she  sits,  and  wonder  if  per- 
chance  she  too  is  not  a  professional  lady  taking  her  fifty 
cents*  worth  hère  for  a  change,  among  the  common  herd. 

Madame  Olympe  comes  as  the  Daugh^er  of  the  Dés- 
ert, a  big,  handsome,  bold  brunette,  with  flashing  eyes 
and  raven  locks.    Thèse  same  raven  locks,  together  with 
the  brief  allowance  of  clolh  of  gold,  and  bullion  fringe, 
and  a  pair  of  tinkling  anklets,  comprise  ne^ly  ail  she 
has  about  her  in  the  way  of  costume.     She  is\distinctly 
indécent  ;  the  virtuous  maids  and  matrons  blush  in  their 
secret  souIs,  and  feel  that  this  is  worse,  vcry  much  worse, 
than  the  pink  gauze.    And  though  the  Daughter  of  the 
Désert  seems  to  fly  through  the  air,  and.does  some  won- 
derful  things,  she  is  coldly  rcceived,  and  the  audience 
break  into  a  laugh  when  a  forward  small  boy  suggests 
that  before  she  does  any  more  she'd  better  go  in  and  put 
something  on,  else  maybe  she'U  ketch  a  cold.in  her 
head  !    It  is  felt  as  a  relief  when  she  does  go,  and  the 
Boundinç  Brothers  take  her  place.    One,  in  the  dress  of 
an  Indian  chief,  ail  feathers,  beads,  aiid  scarlet  cloth, 
makes  a  raid  in  the  territory  of  another,  the  Prince  of 
Pe/u,  captures  the  child  of  ihat  potemate,  and  rides  a( 
broak-neck  speed  with  her  held  aloft  in  pne  hand  in  tri- 
umph^  And  Jemima -Aaagaspspainfully,  for  it  is  little— 
Snowball,  ail  in  white,  her  long  fair  curls  floating,  her 
roscbud  lips  smiling,  the  tiny  créature  stands  erect,  and  is 
whirled  xound  aod  rdund  by  the  iadiaa  chiet    She 


r 


ë 


^SS.^'  -^' 


=s^ 


l'Iilil)  iii'i'iiiJin'il'u! 


■iiiru)i|      Il   iiiiHiiii        ipi 

"4.  .  /*■ 


^i'< 


m 


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In. 


;-'!*■ 


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h 


WE    GO    TO    THE    ClRCU^- 


kisses  her  baby  h^nd,  sbe  smiles  her  sweet  baby  srtiile, 
her  dauntless  blue  eyes  wander  over  thc  house.  Ii' she 
should  fall  !  Jemima  Ann  shuts  her  eyes,  sick  with  the 
thought,  and  does  not  lo.ok  again,  until  after  afree  fight, 
and  a  great  deal  of  shooting  with  bows  and  arrows,  the 
princess  is  recaptured,  and  the  Bounding  Brothers  bound 
out  bf  sight. 

MUe.  Mimi  on  the  trapèze  winds  up  the  performance. 
Her  agility,  her  strength,  her  daring,  hère,  are  something 
to  marvel  at.  Her  springs  from  one  swingihg  bar  to 
another,  look  perilous  in  the  extrême.  It  is  wonderful 
whei^ejin  that  slight,  graceful  f rame,  thèse  délicate  hands 
and  wrists,  ail  that  steel-like  strength  of  muscle  can  lie. 
This  also  Jemima  feels  to  be  more  painful  than  pleasant 
— it  is  a  relief  when  it  is  over,  and  though  it  had  been  an 
evening  of  much  bliss  and  great  excitement,  it  is  some- 
thing of  a  relief  to  rise  and  stretch  one's  cramped  limbs, 
and  breathe  thecool  fresh  nightair,  and  see  the  sparkling 
frosty  stars.  Too  much  pleasure  palis,  Jemima  Ânn's 
head  swims  with  so  much  merry-go-round — she  will  be 
glad  to  get  back  to  the  cool  attic  and  flock  mattress  and 
think  over  at  her  leisure  how  happy  she  has  been. 
I  "I  woi^der  what  time  Mlle.  Mimi  and  that  dear  little 
Snowball  will  get  home  ?"  she  muses  ;  "  the  dear  little 
love  ought  to  be  fit  to  drop  with  tiredne.ss.  No  wonde^ 
her  ma  wanted  some  supper,  I  wish  Aunt  Samanthy 
hadii't  been  so  cross." 

^  vivid  remembrance  of  the  scène  of  that  aftemoon 
flaàhes  through  her  mind,  as  she  trudges  home  through 
the  quiet  streets.  Mlle.  Mimi  just  back  from  rehearsal, 
she  and  Aunt  Samantha  busy  in  the  kitchen,  Snowbhll 
tripping  about,  asking  pretty  baby  questions — ft  swish  of 
siUt^  a  waft  of  strong  perfume,  and  Mimi,  bright  in  silk 
irelvew  lace  and  jeweUy,  présents  hersellr^ 


"How  nice  ^d  hot  it  is  hère,"  she  says,  coming  in, 
with  a  shiver  ;  "the  rest  of  the  house  is  as  cold  as  a  bara. 
Why  doû't  you  hâve  a  fire  in  your  parler  this  October 


-.l.'.î  11--  -o» 


'%.'i)j.^!'iÉi*1'*L  * 


•  ^éM4^É^^Ml^ 


j,      -^'-'.t 


i  ' 


ÎTE    GO    TO    THE    CIRCUS. 


si 


«reather,  Mrs.  Hcpkins  ?  And  how  good  you  smell  !'* 
sniffing  the  warm  air,  and  seatiag  herself  in  front  of  Ûxfi 
glowing  stove.  "  What  are  you  cooking,  Jemima  Ann  ?" 
"Jdhnny-cake  and  gingérbread  for  the  raen's  teas," 
résponds,  mbdestly,  Jemima  Aan  ;  "a  pan  of  each.  The 
men  like  *em."  ^ 

"Do  they?"  sitys  Mimi,  laug^ing.  "What  nîc«,  in- 
nocent sort  of  men  yours  must  h%,  my  dear,  judging  by 
their  food  !  Zshould  not  like  gihgerbread  and  the  other 
thing.  Apropos,  though  (no,  Saowbail,  I  don't  M^sint 
you  ;  ruû  away),  I  should  like  a  hot  supper  when  I  corne 
back  to-night  I  am  always  tired,  and'  hung^  as  a 
hunter.  I  alwaysliave  a  hot  supper;  cold  things  make 
me  dyspcptîc.     Will  you  see  to  ît,  Jemima  Ann  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  glances  apprehensively  at  ^nnt  Saman- 
tha.  Aunt  Samantha  draws  up  her  mouth  U«.e  the  mouth 
of  a  purse,  and  stands  ominously  silent 

''What  time  would  you  like  it?"  timidly  ventures 
Jemima  Ann.  '  , 

"  Oh,  about  eleven  ;  I  shall  not  bé  later  than  that 
Nothing  very  claborate,  you  know — ^just  a  fowl,  à  chicken 
or  duck,  mashed  potatoes,  one  sweet  and  ope  savory. 
Coffee,  of  course,  as  strong  as  you  like,  and  cream  if  it  is 
to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  Something  simple  like 
that!  And  I  shall  need  some  boiling  water  for  pun —  . 
well,  I  shall  need  it  I  may  bring  a  friend  home  to  sup« 
per.  I  hâte  eating  alone,  so  lay  covers  for  two.  Don't 
661  ve  it  in  that  big,  dismal  place  you  call  the  dining> 
room  ;-  let  us  hâve  It  cozily  in  the  parlor.  And  do  light 
a  fire  ;  your  black  grate  is  enough  to  send  a  cl^ill  to  the 
marrow  of  one's  bones.  Snowball  will  not  tsit  up,  of 
course.  You  will  put  her  to  béd  as  soon  as  i^e  cornes 
home.    You  wîll  not  forget  anything,  will  you,  Jemima 

"Amtr ,— ■' -~--^^^ 

Jeminta  Ann  Is  toc  paralyzed  to  answer  ;  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins  is  literally  petrified  with  indignation.  Qnly  for  « 
moment,  though;  then  she  faces  the. audacious  Mipiii 


^  lliUif&^4 


V 


te.: 


iV;^ 


%»  W£    GO    TO    THE    CTRCUSi 

hereyes  flashing,  her  face  peony  red,  her  hands  on  her 
bips,  war  and  défiance  in  every  snorting  word. 

"So  !  this  is  ail,  'm,  is  it ?    Jest  somethin*  simple 
and  easy,  like  that  I  .  And  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  ! 
rW.ôuldn't  you  like  a  soup,  and  fish,  and  oysters,  ma'ami 
an^  a  side-dish  and  CibaHey  Raibse,  and  ice-cream,  and 
strawberries  to  top  thp  lot  !    Why,   hang  your  impi- 
-^ce  fortes  Mrs.  Hopkins,  waxing  suddenly  from  the 
bitterly  sardonic  to  the  furiôusly  wrathful— ♦' what  do 
you  think  we  are?    You  come  hère  and   fairly  force 
youi'self  on  a  respectable  bouse,  and  try  to  begin  your 
«candalous  goin's  on  before  you're  twenty-four  houï*  in 
it  !    But  ril  see  you  furder  first,  'm,  and  Rogers,  too,  1 
do  assure  you  !    No  friends  is  let  in  this  bouse,"  says 
Mrs.   Hopkins,  with    vlndictive  emphasis,    "aftèr  ten 
p'cfpck  at  night— no,  not  for  Queen  Victorious,  if  she 
begged  it  on  her  bended  knees  !" 

^  Mlle.  Mimi,  tdïiçting  her  lîttle  high-heeled  French 
^hoes  before  thb  fire,  turiis  coolly,  and  listens^  first  in 
surprise^  then  in  amusement,  to  this  tirade. 

"My  good  soûl,"  she  says»  calmly,  «don't  lose  your 
temper.  You'll  bave  a  fit  of  somekind,and  go  off  like 
a  shot,  if  ybu  go  on  like  that.  And  what  do  you  mean 
by  scandalous'proceedings?  You  really  ought  to  be 
carcful  iti  your  talk— people  i^et  taken  up  sometiraes  for 
acuonable  language.  It  is  not  scandalousk  tq  eat^  a  late 
JUpper,  is  it  ?  I  am  a  very  propèr  person,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Hopkins»  and  ncver  scandalize  anybody.  ïf  I  can't  bave 
supper  hère,  I  will  bave  it  elsewhere— ii  is  much  the 
same  to  me.  You  wiy  give  me  a  latch-^ey,  I  suppose- 
or  do  you  allow  such  a  demoralizing  t^lng  to  your  art- 
Icssblack  lambkins?  Or  would  you  prefer  sitting  up 
lof  me?    I  like  to-  be  obliging,  and  I  wili  be  back  by 


ipnc.' 


*^«w^iî^-i5^HrMrr:^^kîS^^»^^ 

ic,"— Mimi  laughs—"  this  hoùse  ain't  ïio  place  for 
likes  of  vnii"      Mico   lU:».;    :~i ^.•_ "^  r   »  .. 


iWBie, 

the  likes  of  you. 


Miss  Mimi   glanççs  .^sdainfiilli 


;%f^ 


.  v^. 


WÊ   GO    TO    THE    CJRCUS, 


■■•,# 


33 


about,  and  shru^  her  shoulders.  ^*  It's  a  homely  place, 
and  we'fe  homely  people."  Mimi  laoghs  àgain,  and 
glances  amusedly  from  .the  hot  and  angiy  face  of  ihe 
aunt,  to  the  flushed  and  dis^essed  face  of  the  niece^-a 
glance  that  says,  "I  agrée  with  you."  "  Ydur  ways  ain!t 
our  ways^* — ("  No,  thank  Heaven  !"  says  Mimi,  sottovocè) 
— "  and  «o  the  sooner  we  part,  the  better,  I  do  assure 
yôu.  You*ll  jest  be  good  enough,  ma'am,  to  take  your- 
self,  and  your  traps,  and  your  little  girl,  oyX  of  this  as 
soon  as  you  like — and  the  sooner  the  better,  I  do  assure 

Mimi  looks  at  her.  There  is  a  laugh  still  on  her  rose- 
rednioU|h;  there  is  a  laughing  light  in  her  bli^eyes; 
but  ih^  is  a  laughing  devil  in  them,  too.  / 

"My  good  cr^ture,"  she  says,  slowly,  "you  labçr 
under  a  tnistake.  I  will  not  go,  and  you  shall  not  make 
me.  You  agreed  to  take  me  in  the  présence  of  witnesses. 
I  haye  paid  yoU  a  week's  board  in  advance,  and  no 
power  on  earth  will  move  me  out  of  this  hospitable  man- 
sion  until  it  suits  me  to  go.  And  1  wiU'keep  what  hours 
I  please.  And  I  will  invite  what  friends  I  like.  I  shall 
return  at  once,  and  you  shall  shut  your  doors  on  me  at 
your  péril.  And  I  will  see  you — no  !  don't  cry  out  before 
you  are  hurt — incàmetiienced  ïs  the  word  I  will  use,"  she 
breaks  off,  laughing aloud  in  genuine  amusement  at  the 
horror  in  the  face  of  her  hostess,  and^  rises  gracefuUy. 
"Now,  Jemima  Ann,  the  sooner  you  bring  me  up  some 
tea  the  better,  I  do  assure  j&u,"  mimicking  perfealy  Mrs. 
Hopkins'  nasal  tones';  "and  if  your  gingercake  is  ver^ 

^good,  you  may  bring  me  some  of  that,  too.    Corne,  Snow- 
bail,  and  let  me  curl  your  hair." 

Itisthefirst  t|me  in  ail  her  aeven  years' expérience 
that  Jemima  Ann  hasseen  her  intrepid  chieftainess  taken 

Aoyg-  ■  Jl^^^^^^  to  iQQte  at  her^- Jtiut^hea 

she  does,  she  finds  her  gazing  after  her  enemy  with  a 
blank  and  stony  stare,and  rigid  lipsand  eyeballs,  alarm- 

ingly  suggestivp  of  fits  !    No  fit  ensuâs,  however.    Thev» 

.     .       ••         • 


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-  •* 


^•-"■.■•r*: 


J*  :    ir£    GO    TO    TSE    CISCUS.        v         , 

Xbe^-''iôd  ^r'"'-.'  ""'*'^'  ".^"''  *'»  ''«'  "P  «ho 
foÛted  J,h     ''*\'"«"«-     Aunt  Saman.ha  has  been 

»„H^fi*f°*î  """"*  "°"'  ""•"'■e''  'he  crisp,  «arlit  ni^ht 
a,d  fi„d,  her  stormy  kinswoman  waiting  up  wUh  a 
to,.g..e  and  temper  soured  aad  sharpened  by  long  1  ours 
of  Sf.l.tude  anCsiocking-darning.    She.U  first   bu     hf 

thei,  loud  praises  of  the  charming  Mimi.  Olympe  is  a 
fine  woman,  no  doubt,  and  not  liingy  of  herself  but 
M.mrs  the  girl  for  their  money.  And  thus  thcy  hâve  a 
proud  feeiing  „f  proprietorship  in  Mimi.  She^s  pne  of 
the  famUy  so  to  speak.  They  feel  that  her  be^?y  Ld 
success  reflec.  glory  on  the  house  of  Hopk.TS 
Samantha  hstens  to  it  ail  with  grim  scorn,  &^~, 
SeT.t^  H'"'r°'"*""'^  ''"•  'hebriUiant'dobg^S' 

«,,„  '  ■'^T  ™    "^."°■  '°  "*"  "P  f»""  Mlle.  Mimi. 
1 11  see  it  ont,  if  I  sit  hère  till  I  take  root  "  is  her 

Sirterr;h""H"  ^"""'  »-«  """S»  -  ^-rol Cn- 

wiU»T"'"'u""'^  JemimaAnn  takes  her  tenderly. 
kiMes  and  pets  her,  undresses  and  puts  her  to  bed  It  U 
n..dn,ght,  and  still  Mimi  is  not  hère.  Grimper  and 
grm.mergrowstherigid  face  of  Aunt  Samanrhrcoldër 

"e  kTtLhe?™"'  "'  "J^"'-  "«"'"^  «»<^  dr^t;  look, 
tte  kitohen,  qu.eter  and  more  quiet  seem  the  lonesome 

T^ATT  f"-  "»"-P«'-with  her  arms  on 
the  table,  her  face  lying  on  them,  sleep  as  a  earment 

t!jr  irrgs:"'^"'  °"='  ■"°""  -^-'^^  '-<'•  -™^^ 


UJsJwrl^crWjemhuttA^ 


/whichi'^'Oh  !  be  joyful  T  *' 


\- 


MLLE.    MIUI. 


»«SV»'^W 


^s«r=" 


laughter.    The  key  is  turned,  the  door  \^^i  S 
«a„ds  before  U.en..    She  corne,  i»  Uughi^nlit  àSS 

flushed,  her  blue  eyes  glassy,  Uiere  is  .  smeli    stren^ 
subtle,  ,p.„tu„uj    In  horror  ,he  truth  daw^upôaXm 

They  fal    back.    Even  Aunt  SamanthaT^re^red  for 
the  worst,  is  not  prepared'ïor  tkù     ShV  i.  X„i  .  ? 
dumh,    Ml,.  Mi  JlaU  in  the^^^ace^  . Wlatl' 
hucUy,      sor    to  keep  you  up,   Mis,  Hopkia^    Goo" 

In  dead  silence  Mrs.  Hopkins  falls  back  i^A^» 
«lence  Jernima  Ann  «beys-words  fail  them  bott  ^ 
précèdes  Mimi  to  her  roon.,  where  sweerÛttie  SnowSî 
^eeps,  pare  and  peaceful,  sets  the  lamp  i„  a  pW^ 
safety,  sees  their  boarder  flintr  off  h«f  LJ^  •  i 
throw  herself.  dréssed  JZt.'^Z^^Vt 
goneeventoundressl  .     '"c  i^ca,  too  far 


■.-•>■ 


.M. 


■'I 


CHAPTER  IV. 
WmCH  KECORDS  THE  DARKDOINOS  OF  MLLE.  MIMI. 

>LD  chickiog,"  says  Jemima  Ann— "that*. 
one.  buttered  shortKake-thaf,  two,  c  ~a! 

.ndtea^^e^r-^*?--:--^^^^ 


,.'iM 


'£i 


hiv. 


«  • 
S; .  >  'f 


a... 


'^>y 


..,,-,„^:':lf.^, 


'vnv— "■- 


Ti^ 


■  î  ■"';*•■  «''.ifc' 


MLLE.    MIMT.  '        "i 

*>«  Wr  supper  on  a  trây.  Up  Jn  the  parlor;  in  ,  pal* 
WK  r^y''.»""»  '"""«g  more  or  leS-like  an  aïgéT 
r^h>      '"""'^;  """'"'•  ^"'  '»'''  Mimi  i»  y»w«iDg  „V* 

^mt^l'âr^hT"':  "'  """'"*  '°  "•  """"  ^  "" 
a     «Enter,  Jemima  Ann  !"  shé  Criè»^gayly.  sprin^inir  un  ' 
"Wén  with  .he  fruits  of  .i,e  Whî^'^J^oS  a^d  "î 

Where  u  the  prftious  auntie,  my  Jenii^a,\nd  s  si»  still 
«s  far«one  as  ever,  in  Wackèst  sullt»?"  .  ' 

^vt?  i°'   "u*^^'  «^'^^*'^^'  "«°^  no  wotiden    Yol- 
wally  hadn't  ought  to  donc  k."  " 

mûd  pinchcs  Jemima  A«n's  fe;  ^d  chcefc,  in  passing 
«  Ireally  hadn't  ought  to  dône  it  !    De;teW!    Hcr; 

h«u  Z^^*  "r;  •'^"^l™?  ^""«^  I  admit  I..>V/  imbibe  a 
httletoo  freelylast  night  ;  but  what  willyou?    I  wâs 

do7  '„9!»'^^"ot  ^as^  the  very  best,  and  iced  trp;rfec 
tion.    Did  you  ever  drink  iced  Champagne,  my  nJor  jT 

Thad  to  exchange  places  with  you,  and  grub  down  i« 
that  abominable  kitchen  among  pots  and  pa™!  and  waft 
on  dirty,  o,ly  found^rmen,  and  be  giitied  at  ^  î^t  v  ! 
»ago,  your  aunt  ;  I  would  simply  eut  my  throaTin  a 
week,  and  of  two  evils  think  it  the  least  "   ^      "^^^  ^  * 

t„i^"?^  *•"''  ^^?  '^'^-    ^*^^  ^°°'t  »buî«  hén-ro. 
"g'^JP^te-     Who  is  Lacy,  Miss  Mimi  ?" 
, ,     Tlic  fiist  shyness et  néw  àcquaintanœUover.    MiST 
is*iree-and-easy,touch-and.go  sort  of  person,  ea^Tô 


^ 


i^'-wlf 


lï  •    "(i  » 


r-^ 


^^.v 


-'^'T^^ 


fzz^.  Qir/iir/. 


*  >  r.f. 


«7 


grow  famiiiar  with,  ancf  Miss  ÇEopkjns  has  hW  full  share 
of  féminine  curiosity.    ,   ,  /]      "^y*®^ '""  snare 

"Ishethat  aristocratic'-Iookinc  frent/w.'HifK^  -. 

Washington  House?"  ask,  Jernima,  ki  considembi»  »w^ 
y  she assis., Snowball  tomilk  an*aort.<^kT  "^ 

/        Dycd,  Jemima-dyed,  my/^ear,"    laugh»  Mimi  • 

the  sluds  arereal,  and  he  is  ridi  enough  to  ^ear  a  wlm^. 
d.an,ond  shi«  front,  if  he  chZ.   Yes,fy  Jelw  ..Tihi' 

>7ip/i  foo«  \.f  \M'      TT  Tf"&"*  again  at  the  simple,  pua- 

KetvTk  t^Zk^^^^^^         """'  is  down  h^re /^m  , 
J^iew  York,  wasting  bi?  sweetness  on  Claneville  jiir  foi» 
me  and  for  me  alone.    l  micht  be  Mrs  T  nS^l  ' 

my  Jemima,  ifj  chose.»      ^  ^  ^  to^morro^,  ^ 

**  And  you  don't  choose?" 

mony.    Tfaey  re  a  m.stake,   Jemima.     The    irame  iWt 

ZwZT^''  ^^^"»^- face  sets  atiïdafkens    ud- 
denly  «at  thr^ery  best,  it's  not  worth  it  " 

timidt3^'~*''  ^^'^  *  widowr  Jemima  Ann  vemures,  " 

thcre  is  no  i^ply  ;  Mimi  is  carving  her  chicken  wfh 

you  httle  gourmand    Take  her  away  from  the  Iblf ' 
Jemima  Ann  ;  she's  had  enough."  ^^ 

/     "  Wasn't  had  'nuff/' cries  out  Snowhalî  lustilv  rlîn«. 
"«J^  '^«r  Piatewith  bothhands;«Sy^Sf; 

dearSSle^t^^T '«^-^•'-^^  >^ 


ï'^9^ 


r^. 


X.    ,1 


4:- 


^. 


-« 


'%^ 


r^ 


^''r^ 


■«*■ 


m  *■ 


J« 


>rZZi?.    MIAfl. 


The  dear  lutle  pet  will  be  as  fat  as  a  dear  littlc  DÎir 

d.recdy  under  your  injudicious  indulgencrMiss  Hof 

kmj     No,  Soowba^l,  not  another  mortl,  and  n^  morê 

m,lk.     tf^vethe  table  this  moment  ;yououghttok„ow 

by  now  that  whàt  mamma  says  sbe  means  "  "^^ 

She  nses  and  bears  SnoWbalI   bodily  from  the  vie 

.    uals.     And  straightway  Snov^ball  opens  her  mouth  Td 

hère  nses  to  heaven-such  a  shriek,  Vs  it  is  to  h^  Loed 

few  children  hâve  the  lungs  and  teriper  to  émît      ^^ 

«n.r.lî^T'    "^^^  ^^"»^'«^°">Posedly,«tliatas  thé  sort  of 
angehc  disposrtion  your  dear  little  pet  is  blessed  i^th 

Jemima^   Please  open  the  window  U  she  do^  n^T  In 
this  mstknt,  and  throw  her  out  !"  ^ 

^  Jemima  Ann  déclines  to  act  on  this  summary  hint 
.  She  soothes  the  ehraged  child,  instead,  and  serrent! 

What  an  odd  n^me  you  "hâve  eiven  her"  lih-  „ 
mafkj  clearing  away  .he  things;  -'^Z^V^^^ 
ened  Snowball,  was  sh,,  Thffs  not  a  Chnïrnt^?' 
S^  PBïer  was  christened  anything,  my  eood  J^i 
ma,>spond5  her  mother,  with  a  shrug.  "  Wtat  ia?h« 
use  of  christening?  She  was  a  litèle  whiterrofT^^ÔÏv 
■  baby  ;  whue  hair,  white  skin,  whi.e  clothés-»  Sher 
us^  to  toss  her  np  and  caû  her  I^s  .nowbi.^  W,  snow' 

«m??  ^       ^^«alled  something,  Snowball  it  finallt 
came  to  be,  a,d  Snowball  I  suppose  it  always  wiU  ^ 

tning  elsft    Pearl  or  Lily  wodld  be  more  sentiment/l 
b«  I  don-t  profess  to  be  a  sentimental  ^r„"yÏK 

mt  H^  ■""■  ""^  ^  ™»?»<=e-«ading,Jemima  Snow  " 
The  door  opens  as  she  speaks.  «  ,       > 

;  "SamantK"  says  a  pleasant  voice,  «are  vou  herej-^ 
hi.Itj'^""^  voice  belongs  to  a  pleasant  i^lsi- 
|;ga^;^o  opens  theda^an^n.^g^i^,™ 


*.«. 


J^-*' 


"'.'■>; 

"Why,  Mrs.  Tinkerr  èxcl^aims  Jemima  Ann,  "«  U 
you  ?  When  did  you  corae  ?  Aunt  Samanthy's  jest  gone 
out  marketin'.  Do  corne  in  and  wait.  I  know  she's  been 
wantin'  to  see  you^and  a  talkin'  of  going  to  the  cottaee 
ail  week."        '  » 

"How  do  you  do,  Jemima  Ann?"isthe  smiling  re- 
sponse  of  the  drab  naatrpri.    "Well,  perhaps  I  had  bet- 
-  ter— — " 

She  stops  suddcnly!  Her  eyes  havci  fallen  on  Snow- 
ball,  then  on  Mirai,  and  the  words  die  on  her  lips.    , 

A  startled  Ipok  comes  into  her  eyes,  a  startled  pallor 
falls  on  her  face,  her  lips  part  breathlessly,  she  stauds 
and  stares  like  one  who  has  received.a  shock.  '      « 

"Oh  !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  remembering  her  manners, 
"this^is  Mrs.  Tinker,  Miss  Mimi.  Mrs.  Tînkes^,  this  is 
M^mzel  Mimi,  a  lady  (hat  boards  hère,  and  her  littla 
girl."  T  .   '  ^ 

Mimi  smiles  easily,  shows  her  small  white  teeth,  and 
nods. 

Mrs.  tinker  tries  to  bow,  but  sonle  sudden,  and\ 
strange,  and  great  dread  and  surprise  hâve  fallen  upon 
her— she  retreats  backward  in  a  sort  of  padic,  without  a 
Word.     Mimi  lifts  her  eyebrows  and  laughs. 

"Upon  my  word  !"  sjite  exclaims,  "is  tha^  nîc^  moth, 
«"y  olayparty  cracked,  Jemima  Ann  ?"  . 

Jemitoa  Ann  hurries  out  without  reply.  The  çiderly' 
lady  stahds  in  the.  passage,  still  pale  as  whitewash,  her 
nands^priessedj)ver,her  feeart. 

Wness  me,  Mrs.  Tinker!"  she  pries!    "Whatever 

IS  itr  >;  ,. 

my  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Tinken    "  IVe  had  a  tum/ 
a  turn,  my  dearl    Who  is  that  lady  in  the  parioi  ?" 
amzel  Mimi,  Mrs.  tiàker^  Surelyj^w  doa't  know 

■■'^i---'     ,.   '    ''    ■'■    .,..'-.    ■'-         '/         ^  "^"■'^    ^-^^ 

^r^ear,  rm  afterécTT  do— Fm  sorel^jâTT^ 

1s  she,  Jemima  Ann  ?    An  actress?"  -.      « 


.-*ti 


.•^: 


•2? 


■ 


f^- 


f    . 


-  'f!^-9-pq\  'jtf -^^S^  '  '.  ■ -V| 


f . 


stôhe,  and  Jemima  Ann  feëls  ,h«     •  J  u"   '"^S'"  '" 
,    the  world,  she  i,  nof  mu^  '  ï"'  ''■"\"'«  •>««  ««Ses  in 

ever,  and  does  not  ,woon  '  ■*""  »' ii.hôw- 

corne  at  lasfc    l've  al!J!iw'  "!'."'  "''■'k  '«  «houW 

•hebearthisr    ."'"'*•  "y  <*«";  ""«tress  !    How  wiU 

A    "^^y""  ■"*»"  M«<««ni  VaIen(io..j"  ..       .     . 
Ann,  Ipàking  sympathetic  anrf  H-   T         *''"  Jemima 

•     Tinker^yoùoanneverr^antwî  ''""'°'"   ""^    ««• 

wm.eaîlï.LTnronirS/r"""  ^""  =  ^°" 
fit  to  drop,  and  answer  me  »  ^•/°;^"-«»irs,  I  fcél 

when  .hi^Ws  person  ««r.,  and  riir^;^:,  "'■'"  ""' 

Tfiey  descend  to  Mrs    h„«i^    "  ®*^- 

•tîng-rpom,  and  Mrs  ^«1?,^!^  ^^^  ^^'• 

stimulants  brina  her  sloli!^     ^i  ^  *''  oiv^^x^r,  which 

«nany  a  w1«i^  da7  al  bursh«  T^:    ^?^«»"«nyand 
mçl  oh,  meltothinkff  b  .     ^  *"*'"'  changed.    Oh, 

»H~«W^4«ror-Bhri  ^6ne      It's  «rSic^    «7    JT  ^  r^ 
"*  '  **  ® ''^*<ï*«d,  mj  dear,  bilt  |i 


?»iiS:-4      >  ti  .  'î*  iUiit. 


s^ïf 


J/ZZ^.    i/7jlf/. 


4t 


lioped  she  was  dead— I  did,  indeed.^  And  the  child,  too. 
Oh  !  wAaf  wili  Madam  Valentine  say  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Tinker,"  bègins  Jemima,  literally  devoured  by 
curiosity—but  Mrs.  Tinker  rjses,  a  distressed  look  on 
her  face,  and  motions  for  silence  with  her  hand. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  she  says,  in  the  same  mournful  tonc, 
"  I  can't  tell  you.  I  can't  tell  any  one.  î  can't  stay  an4 
sec  Samautha.  I  don't  feel  fit  to  talk  or  anytbing.  IVe 
had  a  blow,  Jémima  Ann,  a  blowr.  l'il  go  home,  my 
dèar,  and  read  a  chapter  in  my  Bible,  and  try  to  compose 
my  mind."- 

Jemima  Ann  escorts  her  to  the  door^  more  mystifîed 
than  she  has  ever  been  before  in  her  life,  and  watches 
her  out  of  sight,  walking  slowly  and  heavily  as  if  biir- 
dened  with  painful  thoùghts.  Then  she  returns  up- 
stairs  and  into  the  parlor,  where  Mirai  lies  indolently  on 
the  sofa,  her  little  fèet  crossed  in  anr  attitude  morei  sug- 
gestive of  laziness  and  ease  than  Jady-like  grâce. 

**Well,  Jemima,  has  that  flustered  old  person  de- 
parted?  And  what  was  the  matter  with  her?  Is  she 
generally  knocked  over  in  that  uncomfortable  manner 
by  the  sight  of  a  stranger  ?  And  is  she  on  her  way  back 
to  the  highly  respectable  lunatic  asylum  Whence  she  es- 
caped?"  . 

"  Miss  Mimi,  are  you  sure  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
never  saw  hd*  before?" 

"  Never,  to  the  best  of  my  belief.  Why  ?  Does  she 
seem  to  say  that  she  knows  m^/" 

Jemima  Ann  is  silent  Therc  is  a  mystery  hcre,  ànà 
she  feels  that  discrétion  inay  be  judicious. 

"  "  Who  is  the  vénérable  party  anyhow  ?    She  is  a  nie© 
kindly-loo|cing  body,  too,  the  sc(rt  of  motherly  soûl  ono 
would  likié  tor  a  nurse  or  that" 
!*  She  is  l^rs,  Tinker^Mrs.  Susan  tlitlrer." 

'*Susa|i  Tinker.    Euphonious   cognomen  !"   laugh* 
Ifimi.    "What  else  is  she,  oh,  réticent  Jemima  Ann  ?" 
i     "Wdl,  she  is  bousekeeper  for  Madam  .Vale^tiila 


T.- .y"-.*! 


.'^^'?î''"/ 


4» 


MLLE.    MIML 


\  f 


■  f^^-    '^"  ""  housekJeper  for  more  than  t^ty 

Jemima  is  just  about  lifting  the  tray  to  ffo.  bue  Mlle 
Mimr  spnngs  erect  so  suddenlyTutteis  L  »,f ^„".- 
slurply  that  she  drops  lier  load  -       ^«cla'Çatwn  so 

toZe  LSoI'"'""'°V''   "'«^■»  Valentineof  ,he 
SS?  -^  ^°"  ''°  """^  ^"""'""-e  of  the  secret 

veypaie.    She  éurns  ab^*':ar:^îkst'a' wITd '" 

no.bi^of  '^^^^,t::^z\iàT^. 

you  a  question.    Who  is  M^da'mtei.eV^'  *°'^  ' 
prny  madam  «ny  more  than  other  folle»  I  rtn-'i  v- 

MkS  Mimi,  with  a  fresfnn»  «f  {««-•*  wwna,  ciwn, 


^11!/'°'^'"''^^  '^  place,  Claagviiïeidn^ 


t,"  retorts 


!"       ShehM  hou«»  «.d  ptaee,  «eo^he.^'^ 


svl- 


7^^^ 


-/■ 


MZZE.    M/MI, 


ôre  than  twenty 


■"7 


43 


îities  and  in  the  country.     She  cam<ç  hère  three  or  four 
/ears  ago,  and  took  a  fancy  to  a  placçi  out  of  towû,  and 
thoiight  the  air  agreed  with  her.     So  siie  bought  the  cot- 
tage, and  cornes  for  a  month'  or  tw6  every  fall  sincè. 
[And  her  nephew  likes  it  for  the  shooting— pa'tridges, 
[and  that.    She  is  going  away  next  week,  and  won't  coiijie 
[again  till  next  September." 

"  Her  nephew  ?"  Mimi  repeats  quickly.   *'  Who  is  her 
[nephewT* 

"  Mr.  Vané  Valentine,  a  young  English  gentleman, 
and  her  heir.  You  oughtér  see  At'm  a  ridin'  through  the 
town,  mounted  on  a  big  black  horse,  as  tall  and  straigbt 
as  anything,  and  looking  as  if  everybody  he  met  was 
diit  under  his  fâët  !"  cries  Jemima  Ann,  in  a  burst  of  en- 
thusiastic  admiration. 

"  Indeed  !  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  puts  on'  airs,  does  he  ? 
So  he  is  the  heif!  I  knew  there  was  a  British  cousin, 
and  an  heir  to  the  title/  Do  you  know  that  high-stepping 
young  gentleman  will  be  a  baronet  one  day,  JemimsC 
Ann?" 

"Yes,"  says  Jemima  Ann;  "  Mrs.  Tinkcr  tolJ  me. 
But  how  do  you  cometo.know?  You  ain't  acquainted 
with  him;  are  you  ?" 

"  I  hâve  not  that  pleasure — at  présent.  I  inay  hâve, 
possibly,  before  long.  No — don't  ask  questions;  ail 
you  hâve  to  do  is  to  answer  them.  There  are  only  the 
old  lady  and  this  patrician  nephew  ?" 

«That'sall.    Mr.  Valentine  is  dead." 

"  Yes.    But  lised  there  not  be  some  one  else— a  son  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  looks  at  hér  with  ever-growing  curiosity. 
But  her  back  is  to  the  waning  light,  andthw9  is  nothing 
to  be  seen.     '  ,. 

"It's  odd,'*  she  says,  ''that  you  should  know  about 
thatt'not tnany^people'do.    'EveirHMrs;~T 
talk  of  It    But,' yes — there  was  a  son,"  #  ,  v' 

"  What  became  of  Mmî**    .  :   *^  ^ii 

"  Well,  he  went  wild,  and  nm  away,  aad  made  a  low 


■  y-i^y 


't.  '.W*«i 


44 


^ZZ£.    HflAfl, 


[  (fc^         j«T 


Pai^iage»  and  was^  eut  off  «n^  ^  .        - 

«ears  the  house  Ac^r^^  «^     "ccpenmg  m  her  face     Qi, 
baby  daugh.er,  -A^Zm!^^  '^""  ^"'e^oiTr 

of  tiBsel  and  riitter   an!?  ""  ""«  «""«ed  brave™ 

dar.„gdoi„gso„,hedSy!lir-°"  "**  '"P«e.  and 
darkly-brooding  cloud  of  fh„  k 'l'™-  "*"  face  of  th„. 
f"»**  face,  andl,  .hëafte^^S'  '""  ^'''h^'  f™™  ht 
her  sparkling  self,  aW  ~;"  ^"l'"PP"  <*«  outsparkI« 
»»d  exci,ed,as  «suai,  with  Zi  \°"'*  *"«'  «"e.  Sshed 
^^furnished  by  .he  h7^  '^^^  '««âges  o?Fran4' 
Mr  Lacy,  »»»«hington,  and  paid  fgr  bv 

*ot  Mrs.  Honlrii.»    1 

M».  Hopkin.  is  Zl*°.&'r"''  «"""Sliesrteré 
»o«  daring  fo.mdry  ha„d  ?,„  *  "  "**  '»  «othinglS 


,^g^  snd  hlacfcestgA^"gffy-Jatf»  do^aX 


^ 


c  ;  "^  '*>  ^ 


,f  t 


Jl/ZZif.    UJMT. 


4$ 


lon't  putyourself  in  a  passion.  I  intend  to  go  when 
ly  week  is  up,  iy)t  an  hour  sooner,  I  require  stimulants, 
rescril)ed  by  nfiy  médical  atteadant,  I  assure  you.  The 
fe  I  lead  is  frightfully  exhausting.  I  am  not  going  to 
bange  my  habits  and  injure  my  health  to  accommodate 
>ur  old-fashioned  préjudices,  my  very  dear  Madam 
lopkins." 

There  is  nothing  far  it  but  to  suflfer  and  be  strong. 
Lunt  Samantha  knocks  under  to  the  inévitable,  and 

Jounts  every  hour  until  the  blessed  one  of  her  happy 

lelease. 


w| 


"Land  o*  hope!"  eries  out,  despairingly,  Mrs.  Hop- 
ins.    "  Jemima  Ann,  wiilyou  look  at  this  î    Of  ail  the 
(hamefurcreeters,"— a  hollow  groan  finishes  the  sentence 
words  are  wcak  to  express  her  setise  of  réprobation. 
Jemima  Ann  looks.     She  is  not  so  easily  scandalized 
s  Aunt  Samantha,  Tand  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  rathèr 
nvies  Mirai  her  «.*right  good  time,"  but  even  she  is 
itartled  at  what  she  beholds.     An  open,  double-scated 
rarriage,  bright  with    varnish,  "is   flashing    past  ;  >and 
perched  high  on  the.driver's  seat,  beside  the  renowned 
Mr.  Lacy,  holding  the  reins,  and  «  hi-ing"  to  four  spirited 
hôrses,  is  Mlle.  Mimi.     An  expert  whip  she  e^idently  is, 
and  remarkably  jaunty  and  audacious  she  looks,  a  pretty 
hat  set  coquèttishiy  on  the  g^ld^  hair,  a  c^arette  bctween 
lier  rosy  lips,  she  smokes  With  gusto  whtle  she  drives. 
Bdiiad  sits  One  of  thè  &ounding  Brothers  and  his  young 
woman,  aiso  with  cigarettes  aiight,  and  loud  laughter 
Iringing  forth,  and  as  thcy  %  past,  the  whole  decply 
shocked  towo  of  Clangvillc  seems  to  rush  to  theîr  doori 
and  Windows,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  demoraliziair 
vision.  * 

|J.,_^îlLJ!gg!?,§be  J>WQ»^."  Jemimfl  Ann  remarka,  in  a 
subditfïl  voicc  ;  «shedoes  in  her  own  room  socnetimes 
of  un  aftéraoon."  , 


-^-#^if"^-^ 


-1? 


'a-»'*,   \ual' 


\'i 


t,^ 


4tf 


MLLE,    UlMli 


>    noise,  and  blck  li^Le  If  Vi   Tf  """  "'"^  ''"°^.  ">'e 
-"■    far  behind,  and  ISri,  aLrâ     ''  ""'*  ""n-factôries  , 
«-es  »-  every  hand    £.S„t   P,"r  ?""'■■' -»*  J 
orange  gloriès  o(  bright  October  °°  ^'"' 

Mrs.  or  Madam*  Œinf?"  '"'^  '  "^""^  "*  <>« 

"  I  do,'"  replies  Mr.  Larv  .^  «  i'„l       . 
«ne  ;  dused  stiff  youn;  nri/'.       .        '"*'  '"""»  ^alen- 
bility-.aw,  donivoû^kS^*^  '  """j  °"  »'"  of  BHtish  ne 

niet     Sour-looking,    blâck  lnôirf„      !     '^ '*'=»*'°°"e 
liVes  righ,  out  he«r  wi,h  K-  ^*^.  '^8»'''     But   he 

tootherfor  so"  «hTi^^  *"'  «"""^Ço'her.  or  fai^r  god- 

fui  "^:^\^:,T^^^^^:^;  ^^  '^  »  p«-- 

"  Weil,  I  „ant  to  « V^^t^  Col''  "T'"  "'^  "™'- 
m«k*  a  eau.  Don't  «k  q„«Uons  If  îs  n^  '"".?°"'^  '" 
is  «ough  for  j^  Mada™  Va,e«  ni  û^"""?  '  **« 
*»«',  so  thejrtell  me,  and  IVe  ««S  ^d  ,1*  7"  ^«"^ 
meetiflg  one  of  tbe  breed     «^7      '"°."'*  P'easure  of 

"  Vou  Su,.      J    ■    "  ''"'*  '""""cr  chance." 

wi.h  .«restttxr ';r^;  '^t"','  r  .«'■  ^• 

=J«  thf  nid  iadyo  fa.^8  «,hL^^^!  '  ' ''"'^'^ '"'« 'o 
Jxdging  from  whi  Ihear  ™dT  *''T"'=''  y°"«'f- 
biack-visa^ed  nep.e^!  ^O^  a^tt.;?!^! 

1 


"Tr  j  -^-   ,t^'   ^"îjÀf 


he    crimson  and" 


,('•■■. 

MLLE.'  MIMI.  Jl 

bress  nin  to  seed  than  an  every-day,  rich  old  woman. 
>h|ill  we  ail  câll,  or  will  yougo  it  alone?" 

Mimi  responds  that  she  will  go  it  alone.     Her  ciga- 
rette is  smoked  out  .  Mr.  Lacy  lights  her  another,  as  she 
ills  the  four  p^cing  bays  up  at  the  gates^  of  Tjhe 
Cottage.  / 

Her  pretty  face  is  slightly  paler  than  usual  ;  he/  lips 
ire  set  in  a  tight  line  ;  a  somber  light,  that  bçdes  nogopd 
to  the  lady  she  proposes  to  visit,  is  in  her  blué  cyes. 
IShe  sits  a  moment,  and  scansthe  house  and  grounds." 

"  Nbt  much  of  a  place,"  remarks  Mr.  Lacy,  slight- 
lingly  ;  "oiJy  a  shootin'-box  for  the  black  boy— I  mean 
jthe  nephewi  Xx»ts  of  space,  though  ;  could  be  made  a 
jtip-top  coiintry-5eat  if  they  liked.  Want  to  get  down  ?" 
Mimi  waves  his  hand  ,aside,  and  leaps  lightly  to  the 
fground.  . 

"Wait  for  mé  hère,"  she  says,  and  out  ôf  her  vbice 
|ail  the  snap  and  timbre  bave  gone — "or  no;  drive  on, 
land  come  back  in  half  an  hour.  I  will  be  ready  for  vou 
Jthen."         ,      _         .  ^ 

"Wish  we  had  aid  old  shoe  to  throw  after  you  for 
lluck,  Mimi,"  calls  out  the  Bounding  Brocher.  «  Don't 
llet  the  Ogress  of  the  Castle  eat  you  alive  if  you  can  belp 

"And don't  fall  in  love  wîth  the high-toned  nephew," 
|says  the  young  person  by  his  side.  . 

"Or,  what  is  the  more  likely,  don't  let  the  high-toned 
aephew  fàll  in  love  with  you,"  adds  Mr.  Lacy.  "  Sure  to 
io  it  once  he  sets  eyes  on  you.  Ta,  t^  Mimi  I  Speak 
jp  prettily  to  the  oW  lady,  -Don't  bcashamed  of  your* 

She  waves  her  cigarette,  opens  the  iron  gâtes,  and 
snters.    The  càtriage  and  foùr-in-hand  whirl  on— vanish. 
With  the  vellnwr 'nf»«ryT>f\^n  f.m^A  a;f<: j »  ' 


through  the  lofty  maples  and  larches,  Mimi,  with  head 
lofiantly  eredt,  and  blue  eyes  dangerdusly  alight^  waUEg 
ip  to  the  front  door  of  The  Cottage. .       ;  >    ;  ^vl      « 


'.'" 
w^ 


t  J 

•jr  fii^ 


--  S.. 


'J' 


A 


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1 

|- 

1 

1 

/ 

■ 

■'      lis. 

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(■'      y 

1       «^v 

m    \ 

P   h' 

*^' 


.7^ 

V 


-y. 


^ADAM 


VALMUTTli^j^ 


CHAPTER   V. 

'    "«oop,"orvera„l  r,^",'  "["«"'?-, with  » 
„^,.7- of  «5  front,  set  t!"  "."■'"«"•* *'"''* lenKth 

,       ".gnity  and  social  distfncd^    ^'?'"''  •"''  «"'  gf^ter 
'ooks,  and  waits  for  the  vMtTl     '  •""'**  '""'».  «teods 

to  nch,  soundiess  sllks  .„j  „  •  ,  '""k»  «ke  one  bon, 
"««Kls,  foWed  on  the  eoM^„  ï  °"  ""«  «'«nder  white 
«*e.  t«mng,  ber  jWeh  fe^"  V»""-  <•«'  ÉmS,^ 

?ye.  aiight   ,puinjf  defian^Ts^L",!  ^"'-  '«"«>'''• 
-  f '"«T  featuro,  and  «Mj 


.  .k. 


i^' , 


MAITAM    VALENT/NE. 


Ai 


ipfeing,  straight  up  and  on  marches  Mirai,  until  the  two 
^omep  stand  face  to  face. 

Thedogs,  at  a  sign  from  their  mistress,  hâve  ceased 
irking,  and  crouch,  growli^g,  near.  The  cottage  rests 
1  its  afternoôn  hush,  the  long  shadows  of  the  western 
lun  fall  on  and  gild  the  two  faces — oné  so  fair,  so  youth- 
lul,  so  bold,  so  reckless;  the  other  so  stern,  so  old,  so 
^et,  so  proud.  Madam  Valentinc^  breaks  the  silence  first. 
"  To  whom  hâve  Ithe  pleasureof  speaking  ?"  she  asks, 
ler  voice  as  hard  as  her  face,  deep  and  strong  almq^  as 
man's.  .       ,  \ 

"  You  don't  know  me,"  Mirai  says,Oairily  ;  «  well,  that 
Is  your  fault.  /  never  was  proud.  Still,  you  raight  re- 
bognize  me;  I  think.  Look  hard,  Madam  Valentine  ; 
jobk  again,  and  as  long  as  you  likè.  I  am  used  to  it  ;  it's 
|n  my  line  of  business,  you  know  ;  and  tell  me  did  you 
lever  see  any  one  at  ail  like  me  ?" 

She  removes  her  cigarette,  knocks  off  the  ash  daintily 
nth.  her  little  finger-tip,  and  holds  it  poised,  as  she 
Btands  at  ease,  a  smife  on  her  face,  and  stares  straight 
^nto  Madam  Valentine's  eyes.» 

"  I  do  not  jàïow  you,"  that  lady  answers  in  accents  of 
Chili  disgusti  "I  haye  no  wisb  to  know  you.  If  you 
•lave  any  business,  state  it,,and  go." 

"Hospitable!"  Mirai  ikughs,  «and  polite.  So;  you 
îo  not  know>  me,  and  havé  no  désire  to  know  me  ?  Well, 
can  believe  //w^Jjk^ou  do  not  know  me.  You  nèver 
net  me  before,>m  I  hâve  every  reason  to  believe  you 
lave  heard  a  great  deal  of  me.  I  think  your.  elderly 
aousekeeper  knows  who  I  am  ;  she  looted  as  if  she  did 
resterday  aitemoon."  - 

Madam  Valentine  takes  a  step  back,  a  sudden  change 
)asses  over  her  face—a  sudden  wild  fear  cornes  into  her 
y'gg:^  Aj&d  JlJias  chançed^to  few  peopla-4;vcr^4e-se»— 
ladam  Valentine  look  afraid. 
"My  GodJ"  she  says,  undei*  hor  breath,  «is  it— It 


/ 


u; 


4.^ 


I' 


i^^!Ç&;> 


.V%' 


,-Ui 


50 


**  I 


^^J>^Af    fALBNTINS. 


*W%* 


Sional  reasons  »  p^^     i.     *  ^'**™*  J-niion.     For  r.».^<- 

'Pe^ist,  and  tight-rope  d^ncer  !^^  ?"  "'  »  ^ashing  ,S? 
nnder  false  colore     I  r^'^^'  »»<»  I  am  tired  of  siili^ 
J-«-nyo.„„a^    \^^r^'°\^^Miol'^l 
'jeu  on  the  bills,  I  thi„k  J^""»*  y«ientine  '  wu,  3 

»««d  not  good  to  sJ^'i°re  r''^"  '°°\  "'  ^P'^  ^ 

^^-^ve-on  one-.^:-";??  ^:it?^ 

There  is  no  renlv      aku  i 

«  W  6ut  of  Mad'a^- vZiSrf  r- ?"'^' '--^ 
,A  Iittle  irirj  of  tu  ^'^^' firiowinir  eves. 

,   j^^-««^«rig,^i,  do^rof°:l'e^^^'H  n.adam  t; 

I  We  my  child  ;  provide  for "Tr  ^^I  T"  P°»«»^ 

count  your  wealth  bv  miii^  "«^  provide  for  me  :  vou 

«laver    Buy  „e  off;  I  "0"'°°*=  l  """^ge  like  a  ^Ue^ 

«Dd  I-have  my  prie"     sfZ       "^  «"«  Phrases,  yof  set 

and  forthe  honor  of  thé  mI'm"   ^°'  "^  '^"^  «irl-s  saké 

-oii  tha,.  And  you  nay  tek?„  *"**  sufflcieot  annuity 
place  her  at  school  Tlh^n  ^°"  «randdaughteî  and 
«.orifice  theirownteIi„''Ç^"e  ""^  «««hère  Cst 

rt.  t  tr.^  '  p-«  -^!re  ;Lttdrs 

"■"  »°P«f  Wcane,  her  fnce^l^f^"^"  "">  »""» 


on 


,- .%. 


'  ^      '    «  -ï  h 


■y.'^^s.V^j^^'»^'»^;-»»^'*^"^^'''  *^'";j)  ;«'^^'^«^«*Tjf',ji'^'>T,»' 


âfADAM    VALBNTÏNE, 


V\~.  'fi 


1J"»>3Ç' 


si 


,;, 


^m 


V!#l 


"  ïf  you  hâve  finished,"  îs  her  icy  answer,  "  go  !* 

A  flush  of  rage  criinsons  Mimi'a  face.     She  plants 

her  little  feet,  and  cornes  a  step  doser  to  hijr  fbe.  • 

"I  hâve  not  finished  !"  she  cries,»  fiercely  ;"  this  is  olie 

side  of  the  medal— letjne  show^^the  iVerse.     Rç&e 


— treatmewith  scorn  and  insui^  as  you^ve  himeito 
done,  and  by  this  light  I  swear  l'il  make  ^bu  refirent  it  ! 
111  placard  your  name— the  name  you  are  aI>so  priud 
of— on  every  dead  wall,  and  every  fence,  m'every  nelrs- 
paper,  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  !  l'Il  broclfcm 
from  the  house-tops  whose  daughter-in-law  I  havefthe 
honor  to  be,  w^ose  wife  I  hâve  been,  whose  widovkl  km  I 
For  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  your  s©n  is  dead  ?"  '  f 

ïhe  haughty,  inflexible  old  face  changes  for  a  mo- 
menf,  there  is  a  brief  quiver  of  the  thin,  set  lips— then 
perfect  repose  agàin.  '        \  j| 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead,"  goes  on  Mimfî,  "killed  by' youi^ 
hardness  and  cruelty.     He  was  yôur  only  spp,  but  you 
killed  him  with  your  pride.    It  must  be  a  consoling 
thought  that,  Jn  your  childless  old  âge  !    But  you  hav? 
your  nephew-I  forgot-îie  is  to  hâve  poor  George's 
b^rthnght.    He  perished  in  misery  and  waiit,  Madata 
Valentme,  and  his  last  thought  was  for  you.    It  will 
comfort  you  on  your  own  death  bed,  one  <^  thèse  days, 
to  remember  it.    Now  choose-will  you  provide  for  my 
future  and  for  my  child's,  or  shalll  proclaim  to  the 
..^•^^  ^  ^"'  ^""^  ^^*^  manner  of  woman  at«  you  ?" 
Will  you  go?"  repeats  Madam  Valentine,  in  the 
same  voice  of  icy  contempt,  «or  must  I  set  my  dogs  on 
you  to  driveyou  out  ?*,'  /       &      « 

"If  you  dare  !"  cries  Mimî,  her  face  ablaze.    "  I  de^v 
you  and  your  dogs!    Ishall  remain  in  Clangville  unti'l 

fo  r^^^î; Vr^*""""^^"-'  S«f«  y°-^"°'"  Saturday 
^aQ^ecide^IfJbia4iot--bgaf4fmiiyott  before  I  Jgffiv^T^^ 
place,  look  to  the  conséquences  !    The  whole  C<^try 
shall  know  my  story  ;  thè  world  shall  judge  betw^eii  us 
Mystor^shallbetold  in  cyeiy  way  in  wliçh  U^^ 

//•  ■      •  ■ 


■^.i 


n  * 


5» 


MADAM     VALENTINE. 


\ 


^ble  to  tell  it,  the  story  of  the  wronged  wife,  and  the 
mother  who  murdered  her  only  son  !     You  are  wamed  ' 
I  w.sh  you  good-day,  and  a  very  good  appetite  for  vou 
dinner,  Madam  Valentine  !"  ^^  J  ^'^"'^ 

'    She  takes  her  skirts  after  the  stately  old  fa^hion  ind 
si^eepsaprofound  and  mocking  courtesy.     Then  ;in" 
ing  as  she  goes  a  snatch  of  a  drinking  song,  and  walkinl 
w.^an  exaggerated  swagger,  she  marches  b^re' 
jpin  her  fnends.  by  this  time  wairing  at  the  gâte 

Madam  Valentine  stands  and  looks  after  her  a  loftv 
lonely  dark-draped  figure,  in  the  yellow  waning  S' 

foIdlL'SST"'^*'''  *^"°^^  '""'^'^  -  the  top  oftr 

The  lengthy  afternoon  shadows  are  at  their  loiiM^t 
the  Oct„b<|r  wînd  sighs  fitfully  through  the  treTs^the 

Change.  The  dead  seems  to  hâve  arisen,  hef  drowned 
son  has  corne  from  bis  grave  and  spoken  tô  her  thrZh 
th.s  woman's  lips-this  low-born.  low-bred,  violent  crS 

S'^ST*'  '°;T?'  '■^"'""^  ^-Shrtder  M 
h=r^-  u  u**  '"''  ■■'  has  wedded,  the  danghter  he 
has  given  her,  the  motber  of  the  last  daoehtefnf  ,h! 
bouse  ofV.Ientin«!  H  viodictiv.  little  StfaughiÔ; 
Cw^^nT*""^'  î"""^  foor-i-tond,  loudly  and  ri^?! 
S^î-i  ""^^y^^^-  <=<»•"  but  read  the  bLrt  she  tas 
lef  t  behmd,^  even  her  vengeance  would  ask  no  tnoreî 


""f       »?•'* 


-1^^ 


fi.""  t*  *  ' 


cgfpp  4     P         "'tf*''J'         f  '»- 


f    '   *-*^  _^ 


^,-|:.j„»,.,- 


if/f.     K^iV^     VALENTlNE. 


53 


,f. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


WHICH  INTRODUCES  MR.  VANE  VALENTINE. 


HE  rouses  hèrsplf  at  last^and  goes  in,  shiver- 
ing  in  the  first  cônsciousness  sbe  bas  yet  felt 
of  the  risiqg  wind.  Jt  is  dusk  already.  in  the 
^a^  but  the  sitting'-room  she  entera  is  Ht  by 
a  bright  wôod^fire.  The  last  pale  pri^rose  glitter  of  the  ' 
western  sky^  sKows  throvrgh  the  muslin  cùrtainâ  of  the 
one  bay-window — a  wiwjow  with  no  wotnanly  litter  of 
bird-cages  and  flôwer-pots,  or  fancy-work.  "  And  yet  it  is 
a  cozy  room,  and  sufficientiy  home^ike,  with  an  abun- 
dance  of  bocks  and  magazines  strewn  everywhere,  many 
pictures  on  the  papered  m^IIs,  ànd  half  a  dozen  chairs  of 
the  order /<?«/■. 

She  pulls  tlwj  bell-ropé  in  crossing  to  her  own  partic- 
ular  seat«  and  âinks  wearily  into  its  downy  deptbSj  in 
front  of  the  fire.  She  still  rests  upon  her  cane,  and 
droops  a  little  fprward,  but  the  stem  old  face  keeps  ita  ' 
bard  frigidity  of  look,  .and  shows  little  mpre  trace,  of 
suSering  than  a  face  eut  in  gray  stohe. 

"Jane,"  she  sayis;  quietly,  to  the  woman  who  appears,  " 
|f  send  Mrs^inker  to  me."  p  , 

Jane  sa^s  *^Yes'm,"  and  goes.   ^e  dark,  resolute* 
eyés  turn  to  the  fire  atid  gaze  into  its  ruddy  depths,  untit- 
the  dobr  reopens,  an^  the  housekeeper,  fluttered  and  ner- 
vous,/enters.    She  has  caught  a  glimpse  oisihià  visitor, 
and  stands  almost  like  a  culprit  before  Wèr  n^îstress. 

Madam  Valentine  eyés  her  for  a  moment  ék  she  stands 
smpothing  dowj^  her  black  silk  apron  witlv  two  restless 
old  hands.  — * i— ,,=,,==,,= 


--^ 


h^ 
havc 


"Susan,"  she  says,  in  the  same  quiet  tone,"I^te 
da  caller.  Vou  may^  hâve  seeii  Her — you  may  even 
ve  heard  her,  she  spoke  loudly  enough.    She  meii 

p  *■■.■'-'. 


4 


54 


>' 


,^'-. 

m:"^' 


Stop!  I  want  to bAjf 
«t!!:^"'»'""     ,r'^"°'""»«^  0°youknowwho 


8he 


-  >"aiujs  co  De  ?"       »  

.do  r  °'''  ""^  -^.^  «istre^  ,  an,  «.eard-I  an,  a,«.  . 

^7  o,d  fiLJ^Z  ^-Jf^  ««r  «»«e„  on™"  ^  ,^^« 
wito  sorrow  o»^     l     ^''^tca,  so  tear-WAi-   -         . 


•  "Yo;;;:r^''f«'g°ny  withi.;-  ^''■"'  ""«  p^d., 


••f 


-T    ïi^*      i'.»'      ^ 


**j«5!,«^  «Ti^-i''Hi*  *  %>•§{■< 


"•ÏVS;' 


,'J?*'4f^;'-n#îf2|î<t'J7V*yî«?f, 


JTi?.     KrfJVifi    VALENTINE. 


well  tr^ined  as  her  face--"withput  a  \^^0rd— from  the 
photogfraphs  you  used  to  see  ?"     *  T 

"  I  did,  raa'am." 

"  Then  I  suppose  there  can  be  no  mistake.  I  would 
not  hâve  believed  that — that  person's  word.  You  know 
there  is  a  child  ?" 

"  I  saw  her,  madam.  Oh,  my  dear  mistress,  I  saw  her  ! 
— Master  George's  own  little  child  !  Oh  !  my  h«Ut  !  my 
heart!" 

She  breaks  down  suddenly,  and  covering  her  old  face 
with  her  old  hands,  sobs  as  if  her  (leart  would  break. 
Madam  Valent!  ne's  face  changes,  works^^ind  turns  qûite 
ghastly  as  she  listens  and  looks. 

"Oh,  foi^ive  me!"  Mrs.  Tinker  «obs,  "my  own  dear 
mistress.  I  hâve  no  right  to  cry  and  distress  you  in  your 
sore  trouble,  but  I  ïoved  him  so  !  And  to  see  her — ^that 
pretty,  pretty  little  one,  and  to  know  that  he  was  dead, 
my  bright,  bonny  boy,  and  that  she  was  his  child— oh  î 
my  mistress,  it  goes  near  to  break  my  heart  Don*t  'ee 
be  angry  wi*  me,  I  am  only  an  old  woman,  and  I  held 
him  in  my  ^rms  many  and  many  a  time,  and  my  own 
flesh  and  blood  couldt,  never  be  dearer  t^n  my  dearest 
Master  George  !" 

"  You  may  go,  Susan."      "k. 

She  speaks  with  measured  quiet,  but  not  coldly  nor 
impatiently.  j  T 

"And  you  are  not  angry  wi*  me?     Oh!  mistress, 
dori't  'ee  be  angry— don't  'ee,  now  !    Indeed,  and  in  vcry* 
deed,  I " 

"  I  am  not  angry.    You  are  a  good  seul,  Tinker.    I 
hâve  a  great  respect  for  you.    When  Mr.  Vane  cornes  in 
send  him  to  me  at  once." 
>    "  He  is  bere  now,  ma'am.    I  hear  his  steps  in  the  'alL" 

A^low^  rather  beavy  step^  is  indeed  audibte^  and-»-- 


man's  voice  calls  through  the  utter  dusk  for  somebody 
to  show  a  light 


-5 


if-- 


•si 


<!^Wt^ 


fii^^.luA^.,^  t^  . 


/ 


-^4 


/ 


56 


.'^\''   r%^  ".  WKv 


I 


^ 


ù^. 


if-'' 


M 


4> 


bcrl  mÎ^H  rf "";"«-•"&  "  'ell  hta  ,0  corn.  • 
«eu  .,  ,  "'^«oes  to  his  room  i^r.  ^-       ,  conae  m 

„sha„  I      ,     ,^_^     ZZr'"^' '"''''•>-»■- 

x\o— not  until  I  rino-     -ru 
f  «  turns  her  b^W  ^r""  "'P""^  »"d  ^-r  njis. 

yet  she  has  be^  a  n,«;J  *^  '°  ^e»"  stiii  faci»      a   5 

-d  au  .he  n.S,rd:rorCaS°:"''^  ^"^n^^ott' 
W.  this  hour.    But  of  au  1^*^™"^  «  «nding  her  heart 

r„r"  »-  '»  -e  v:;Ta;.\-:r.--- 

«f  her  late'CLtj^'iS^  ti^^^f  ^-f  «^an,  a  nephew 

"'«>  a  «noC.^fff^-'f  »-."otmuchovert.ent, 

Of  «s«i„e„r,^teTorStr  "!"'"-«  ^'"^ 
"  you  except  a  certain  "®°'  Po»ots  about  Mm 

.  «o  .««.leno.  io  eveiythi";  hl  «7^"^  T'""""'^'^^ 

Tbe  pride  of  thèse  ^  °,   ^^^^  ""d  does. 
q-ite  out  of  proposa  tôT^^  '"  «h»'  "».tter  H 

O"'  «rf  the  .b.sol,.f.  'H^  °°^'"'°"'«'- gf   • 


■IJie-faioi^ 


I^vertjrrun  i»  hames,  ^.^tr  ^'""*'~'~'  Pride  «d 


-  V*,. 


^Ci\ 


m\ 


h^:^vm%,p  '\f  { 1  c^-^'S^f^^îs^Sp 


i-j*.'"- 


Jf^.     r^JV^^    VALENœiNB. 


sage,  for  madam,  in  a  gênerai  way,  îs  not  over  fond  of 
him,  does  not  greatly  affect  his  society,  and  never  sends  ' 
for  him. 

"  You  are  not  ill,  aunt  ?"  he  înq^ires. 

He  speaks  with  something  of  a  drawl,  but  not  an  af^ 
fected  one.  He  never  has  much  to  say  for  himself,  so 
perhaps  is  wise  to  make  the  most  of  the  little  he  has. 

"111?  No,"  she  answers,  contemptuousîy.  "I  am 
never  ill.  You  should  knpw  that.  I  hâve  sent  for  you 
to  discuss  a  very  serious  matter.  I  consider  you  hâve  a 
to  know,  and  perhaps — to  décide.  You  may  be  my 
the  honor  of  the  Valentine  name  is  in  your  keep- 
ind  she  threatens — Vane  !"  abruptly,  "  you  know  the 
story  of — my  son  ?"  \  ^ 

"  Unfortunately,  yes.  A  very  sad  and  shocking  story," 
he  answers,  gravely. 

He  is  standing  by  the  mantel,  leaning  his  elbow  ou 
it,  facing  her.    She,  too,  steadfastly  regards  him. 

-  "  You  were  told  as  a  matter  of  course  when  you  first 
came.  Not  many  people  know  it — it  is  a  disgrâce  that 
has  been  well  hidden.  But  it  is  a  disgrâce  that  ail  the 
world  may  soon  know.    That*woman  is  hère." 

"  Aunf !"'he  cries.  "You  do  not  mean  to  say — n^/the 
woman  he — ^" 

"Married.  Yes.  Once  his  wife,  now  his  widow. 
And  her  little  girl — his  çhild."  ^     '■ 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  exclîuhis  Vane  Valentine. 

Then  there  is  silence.  They  look  at  one  another 
across  thè  red  light  of  the  fire,  two  proud,  dark  faces,  con- 
fronting,  with  the  same  fear  and  painini  both. 
»  "She  is  a  circus  performer — ^bare-back  rider — trap- 
ezist — so  she  tells  me.  She  dances  on  a  (ight-rope.  Sho 
is  everything  timt  is  brazen  and  bad,  and  vulgar  and 
~  uOfFiviei  '~  A&Gr  ftb^  td^^xtreuielir  ut'ctcy.'  iboe  kâ'U^i^~w~i¥iï^ 
the  circus  in  the  town.  She  call«d  at  this  house  not 
more  than  two  hours  ago.  ^And  she  threatens  to  pro« 
daim  to  the  whole  country — in  posters,  in 


^,-^' 
i'-">.-' 


•(  •«. 


m 


*r  ^1  i-v  -^  ■-^-  ^ 

.'^  V-:,  ^%id[f^:.¥fS^>^. 


"'S^'l^'^  '''•^"'. 


5» 


%J^^;  wa,.  eha.  she  is-*a,  L-G«.^'  ^^^ 

.  ab«,lu,ely  stunned  bVthëf  J^    ^°'  '°  '"^-    He  stand, 
trtphi  .  He  sta«,  l  w:  a'!°tt"!?r.  °*  «"''  «"»»-  ' 
wWçh  a  ver,  real  hoiror  loÔÏS!  "^'"S  ^'^^^  ^o» 

She  calls  herself  «1^!  Trill,^„  .. 
l<>dgeswithMrs.Tinker"r„sh,    „?.,°*   P""*""*-    She 
«main  until  Saturday     Af^  wf'T""'-  ""^  »»» 
is to kn w  who  she  U"         *  ^""^' «^ »''»1«' "orid 

««at  ■•Can-carnoaîntT^J'^**''""«»«8«isnot 
«ks  io  blankest  a^°f '°fi^  ^°°?'  y°"  k»o„r  he 
by  Jove  I"  ^  '    '  wouldn't  for  an^thing, 

«  «2'2»f'"sr^;f-^  I.o.cnt.o.ed  the  chiid J 
««loptJon,  éducation,  ^ofthfKM^    "''  P'***  '»  «he 

»f  ter  p.4nt  lif:!?,o'  fc^'^rfi  ,^"»  ««0 
"P  the  little  girl.  ret^nT-,^'^  '  *''*  "'"  '«""o  ^  give 

:  ^  Wfongs  ani  h%r  iSty ?„"Sï^f:  *'  ""'  P««'aim 
3*«t  is  her  offS-  •>  ^      *"  ""'>  <*<><«»  to  listen 

««rhernameblaSnir^îi  "h^"'»'  TriMon-ye,,! 
too.  by  Jove  I    AU  bi^  „  °l    '5'  """"•  ""«■  ber  pi«u~ 
M«bilfe     And«a?r^w    '"?î*'*«««r««tteo1 
venl»  '  •^«"■•«e»  widow?    Good   Hea- 

fa  «'•»*ngîhe«'rd  »'i^'^?^  „" T'»"  '»  "o  use 
Heaven  has  v.t  Ijttin?   f '   ^T^  "'*^«°  ''    '  ^""T 

,^  ogniïed  her  in  a  moment  from  M^-^-i- 


•^     '9h    !3*;î|;g^^^!^s.*,  '  i^^  ^  ,k^>"/4~s.'%V'^    r-^ 


.'  •  V  M>r  ■  '  ''^''  '#"'•,"' 


MU.    VANE    P^ALJmTINE, 


ï' 
5« 


photograpB  she  used  to  see.  She  bas  beeû  good  enough  . 
to  give  ine  until  Saturday  to  corne  to  a  décision.  I  waivo 
my  right  to  décide,  and  place  thé  niatter  in  your  hands. 
"You  hâve  your  full  share  of  the  Valentine  pride,  and  yoti 
are  thé  last  of  the  name.  You  will  bear  it— with  honor. 
I  trust— when  I  am  dead.  Décide— do  we  agrée  pr^ 
refuse?"* ,  '     v>  ■  .■  '   j,  .-\ 

Mt-,  Vane  Valentine  is  not  a  fool  ;  vérjf  far  frôm  it 
wherè  a  point  of  family  honor  is  conceméd.  He  décides 
with  a  promptitude  bis  somewhat  weak-looking  mojith 
would  not  seem  to  promise. 

"  We  agrée,  of  course.  We«»j/agfree.  GroodHeavenî 
there  is  no.other  course.  If  she  is  the  person  she  pro- 
fesses to  be,  and  has  a  right  to  Û^e  namè— good  God  ! 
only  to  think  of  that-^  cîrcus  rider  !  She  must^  be 
bought  off  at  any  prioç.  Think  of  the  publiclty  !  think 
of  your  feelings!  tliink  ol  mine/  of  my  sister's— of 
Camilla's— of— of  everybody's— of  :  Sir  Rupert's  l  ÇtiSoà 
Heavëo!  it'sâwful,  don't'you  kndw.  She««<nfb^>>0ugllt 
ofiÈ  at  îHiy  priée,  and  at  once— at  Once  !" 

"  Very  well,"  responds  the  chilly  yoice  of  the  lady. 
"Do  not  excite  yourself  ;  ther«  is  no.  haste.  We  hâve 
until  Saturday,  reraember— two  dàys.  Do  aothing  ta- 
night;  sleep  upon'it.  At  the  same  time,'!  *iay  say,  I 
think  with  you.  Mone^  is  nothipg  in  a  case  Mke  this. 
She  must  be  bought  off  ;  and  at  her  owp  price." 
§*  "  Of  course,"  says,  promptly,  Vane  Valentine  ;  "  but 
I  will  make  thie  best  terms  I  can.    The  bçst  Wlll  be  bad, 

>  no  doùbt    She  mvist  be  a  dused  sharpçr  allihrough! 
It  is  well  she  will  give  up  th«^chiid..  Aïïttlégirl,yott| 
say?    Aw,  that  is  best,  certainly,"  sâys  Mr.  Valentine^ 
stroking  his  tbin,  bla(;k  mustache,  and^reflecting  it  might 
bavé  been  *»dused  unpleasant  and  tbat"  if  George's 

— €btld  hnd  beea  a  Boa>.    Inconceivablo  asSy  George  Vali 


'Pu 


>^MA 


"t 


>.  t.i 


tine— doing  the  ail  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost  bud-/  .''^« 
ness  in.the  nineteentb  century,  wben  paséiôns  and  cm<^ 
tions,  and— «w— that  sçrt  ôf  thing,  are  extinct". .  -^^ 


''if 

7 


t 

<^o     ^      .  •  JfX,  I  y^j^^    VALENTINB. 


i,rr-' 


f 


^'41^  ; 


(pKce.         '  -  ■  ■    ^  'f  »«  can  buy  that  lady  off  at  a  fâir 

»I.e,yousayr   feut.>fêtu^e   'tl!?''*'?"-    ^''''^- " 
she  will  resign  the  child   '^J"""-^"»/  .  Ves,  it  is  well 

ours.    Good  -h1v^„Î    o    hifk  ;r^,'"î'  "  •«"«'«  «* 
and  settlethis,a«r  dns«l  ..„„i  J       '  *'"  «*  her, 

for  good  and  aâ"  ""P'**^'  '"'^-e»».  Jou  knowi 

We  a  cup  of  tea  hU âni  "ùré  eart'  T"'°«i    '  *'" 
myself  thisafternoon,  1  fa„c""  «ver-faUgued 

Val'enUn'^^ew'^^r  '^'•'*'«'"  ■^°*»  "«O-»  ' 
»Une,up«ddo:n  thesto^p  "TT'T  '"  '^«  »"- 

with  a  ^t^i;^':'  «'°r'  »»d  preoccupied,  Sut 
nlghtfalls  mlstily  Ôv^h!;  J^*"'  "î  '"*  ''""T  Octolier 
coat,  and  ««sout^wa  brisl^'^k 'fP"''""  '''*  '?■"  °™'- 


#' 


.i/  ^' 


.  '-p 


^^:^^#éÇ^l'¥f^?^f/r^^w^>'^  i'-j^ 


LOVES    YOUNG    DRBAM. 


6i 


•v'»5 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

|HE  moon  is  shining  brightly  asjie  quitsihe 
cottage,  a  frosty  moon,  aùd  the  sky  is  ail 
alight  with  stars.  Mr.  ¥ane  Valentine  glances 
^___^  approvingly  upwar^.as  he  lights  a  cig?ir,  and 
opines  he  will  hâve  a  pleasant  night  for  his  return  walk. 
His  step  rings  like  steel  on  the  hard  ground,  and  reaches 
the  ear  of  madam>  sitting  àlone  and  lonely  before  the 
fire.  She  glances  af ter  him— a  tall,  slender  figure— and 
in  tbat  look,  for  one  instant,  there  flashes  ont  something 
strangcly  ;akin  to  aversion.  For  he  stands  in  the  stead 
of  her  son,  her  only  son,  her  bright,  brave,  handsome, 
joyous  George,  the  latchet  of  whose  shoes,  at  his  worst, 
this  stiff  young  prig  is  unworthy  to  loose.  Yet  the  aver- 
sion is  unjust  ;  it  is  no  fault  of  Vane  Valentine's  that  he 
is  hère,,  he  bas  neither  sought  for,ilor  forced  himself  into 
the  position,  rather  his  kinship  bas  been  thrust  upon  him, 
and  Katherine  Valentine  knows  it  well.  But  her  spirit 
is  sore  to-night,  she  is  a  very  desolate  woman,  with  ail 

'  her  pride,  and  pedigree,  and  wealth,.  an  old,  a  lonely,  a 
widowed,  a  cbiîdless  woman.  The  cruel  words  of  that 
other— George's  wife-r-Géorgc's  wife  |  how  strange  the 
thought— nay,  George's  widow— the  woman  he  bas  loved, 
bas  married,  the  mother  of  bis  cbïld,  ring  in  her  ears,and 
will  not  be  exorcised.  ,  \      *  , 

"Yoii  murdered  him!  You  Icft  him  to  perish  in 
want  !  You  killed  him  with  yout  pride  !"  Oh  !  God,  ils 
it  truc?    George  la  want— suffering-HJying  1    A  low, 

~moânînf~e¥y»  siratige,  and  dreary;  und  icrribbrto  hcarr 
breaks  from  her  lips,  she  covcrs  her  face  with  her  hands 
there  as  she  sits  alone.    Hère,  with  no  eye  to  see,  no  éar 
to  heaY,  her  pride  may  drop  from  her  f or  a  little»  îind 


.^>. 


:^ 


% 


't'i 


yi- 


;i 


«►■< 


^^'^  n,«A^^^ 


.    «"Plier,    ^^v),,*''^'^"^"*'.  yyitbMr^?lT^-    ^o 

«■«1  white  f  A  tte  bl'  M**P'»»  '<"  sake  ofV,"  ',T 
«w  a  few  h„,.  '  °5^  Wue  eyes.  anH  «  "*  P'"* 

I-'metK^.  ^^  ""«"^en  hair  ahe 

"loris;  j;"  '°'-— --rcïï 

toseek  his  î;,„    *"P^  and  sailed  for  .k      '*''•  •<>  "» 

ni«^?-  P'"^^  and  "ffo  "  AnJ^  K  f'  P*>sses8ed  of  olent^ 
Plodding.  of  waitina^^'  1^^  ^^^ne;  not  afSd«# 
Mnedio,g„^>eeed7-T^"^~^^^  ^^  ^^ 


worJc,  itbtpti^î 


^i^  «oit  of  min  does  succeed.    ^  ^ 


'T^'"-'  •^*  ~f  '  "t^'"^*  •»?-^f'i'jyvj^'';^'S'te?-<,"f  ,V'Y\*v  "-«Vt»  jf- 


ZOVE'S    YOUNG    DREAM. 


63 


^^1 


.•5" 


/ 


sacceeded  beyond  eVon  his  most  sanguine  expectations,  ^ 

and  like  ail  men  of  ability  believed  iraplicitly  in  himself. 
He  took  to  trade,  tjhe  first  of  the  name  of  Valentiné  whô 
liad  «ver  so  dèmet^ned  himself.  They  had  been  free- 
booters,  raiders,  hard  fighters,  hard  hùnters,  hard  spend- 
thrifts;  had  been  soldiers,  sailors,  rectors,  lived  hard, 
died  hard,  distinguished  themselves  in|msiBy  ways,  but*^ 
tradesmen  none  of  them  had  been,  u«il  young  Austin 
l&rew  off  the  traditions  and  shackles  of  centuries,  eman- 
cipated  himself,  toôk.this  new  departure^  demeaned  Wm-  ■  ., 
self,  and  made  his  fortune.    ,  ;  ^^' 

It  was  time^  too,  for  theJValentine  guineas  had  corne 
to  a  verylowebb.    Riotous  living  is  apt  to  empty  al*  / 

readydepleted  coffers.  Sir  Rupert,  with  every  inch  of 
land  mortgaged,  the  manor  rented,  wandering  about  the 
Continent,  striviftg  drearily  to  make  thé  most  of  nothing, 
was  perhaps  a  greater  object  of  compassion  than  Austin 
î°  ^'^^  shipP^^g  business  and  fur  trade,  with  wealth  roll- 
ing  in  ïike  a  golden  river,  a  millionaire  already  at  thirty 
years.  .But  Sir  Rupert  did  not  think  so. 

From  the  heights  of  his  untarnished  position,  as  ono 
of  the  oldest  baronets  of  the  baronetage,  he  looked  in 
honor  from  the  first,  on  his  only  brother's  décadence, 
spokeof  him  al  ways  as  "  poor  Austin,"  and  to  do  him 
justice  declined  to  avail  himself  in  any  way  of  snch  ill- 
gotten  gain.  Austin  laughed;  hewas  philosophidal  à9 
well  as  shrewd,  went  on  the  (^ven  ténor  of  his  wealthy 
way,  and  finally  at  three-and-thirty  looked  about  him  for 
awife.  \>  j  ■•'.  ,    i  ,- 

He  found  one  there  in  Toronto  ready  to  his  hand,  a  r>ira 
flwr,  possessing  in  herself  every  quality  he  mo«t  desired 
in   a  wife— beauty,  family,  high-breeding,  an  ancient  ' 
QftOMà    Her  father  wâs  Ck>lonel  HamiltOn,  she  was  the 

Like  the  Valentines,  the  Hamiltons  wefe  uncomfoctably 

poor  and  proud.  «  /  ..      ^ 

The  young  lady  had  mmf  tuitoin^  W  a  belle  ànd  a 


'■ik 


■*}:' 


"Si"  ' 


I 


^4 


1 


^ovs>s  yowG  .^ji^j^    >,jt' 


f    «î' 


Nothing  s„ccc«ds  like  ZcceT"»^^"""'  «««d  to  wio 

?"  «.eyounger  „„es,  and^Wet^'^Pf-  '""'■^«"  ««^^ 

^«ual  at  ail  ;  bu.  »àe  rêau;i^:f  »;  ^  «»  «ot  s«n. 
««ard  and-and  esteem  fit  i»  dil!  .7    f  '  ""^  «"«rç 
»ord)  for  Mr.  Au,tin  Valen   „e    '    *  '°  '''"'  ""»  ~rréc? 
She  said  yes  whfn  h-  """"•«• 

eq  in  her  wWte  sadn  anH""??'  ""*  '°°^^  quite^e-"' 
one«Ud,  on  her  w^^îdi:"!^"'"'  "^'r"  P« '»-  «^e,^ 
They  wenl  abroad  for  A  „.  •  f 

sAom  «ceived  his  fomi^L "?""'  ""^  the  bride- 
le^  fingers  to  shake     lé  «!„  "'"*  ."''"'"e  »<'  two 

For  a«  the  norUk^rZ'T   «^«"«^t  Ws  i^rfj^ 

firn.edinvalid,hy^hondrirc™h/  «"-«-w*,*.  ion* 
«nd  hUmany  ailmenta-  ?'"'"'"'''<''*«»  in  Umseif 
°"t  "creaking  door» 


came  my  Lady  Valenttae     /  ""  ""■  ^"«î»  "«"'er  be- 

1  '      i-  .     ■ 


T* 


j"?'';^i?f4 


"»  'f. 


•'.'tï^?v 


LOVE'S    YOVNÙ    DREAM. 


65 


On  this  October  night  Austin  Valentine  lias  lain  for 
ycars  undèr  thè  turf,  while  the  hvpochondriacal  elder 
'  brother  is  still  on  it,  and.  likely^indefipitely  there  to 
romain.  ^  '  ,,    , 

^  jrbey  returned  to  Toronto  anîl  set  up  house-keepipg 
iftn  a  princely  sçale.      _  j .     - ^  ' 

Katherine  Valentine  amply  renumeratéâ  herself  for 
the  dingy  years  of  her  maiden  life.  She  spent  money 
lavishly,  extravagantly,  on  every  whim  and  capric^  until 
even  gênerons  Austin  winced.  But  he  signed  the  big 
checks  and  laughéd.  "      . 

/  Liet  it  ^o— she  dïd  honor  to  him,  to  bis  name,  to  their 
position  as  leaders  of  society — ber  tastes  were  aestbetic, 
and  aesthetic  taistes  are  mostly  expensive. 

Everytbîng  tumed  to  gold  in  bis  bands,  be  was  a 
modem  Midas  without  the  ass'  ears.    Let  ber  spend  as 
sbe'might  the  coffers  would  still  be  fnll. 
.    And  tben  after  ten  years  a  son  was  bom.   I"' 

When  a  prince  of  the  blood  is  born,  cannons  boom» 
bells  ring,  and  the  woild  throws  up  its  bat  and  boorays. 
None  of  thèse  tbings  were  donc  When  iCatherine  Valen- 
tine's  son  came  into  the  world#  but  it  was  an  event  for 
ail  tbat  >,  >  ^^    ^    . 

Toronto  talked,  there  was  feasting  below  stairs,  tberv 
wère  congratulations  from  very  august  quarters,  a  gov- 
ernor-general  and  an  earl's  daugbter  weije  bis  sponsors, 
the  cnristening  présents  were  something  exquisUe.  Sir 
Rupert  wrote  a  very  correct  letter  from  Spa— a  weak 
little  pean  of  rejoiciag,  but  very  warmly  welcomed.  He 
looked  on  the  boy  as  bis  successor,  hoped  be  would  grow' 

-^flip  to  be  an  honor  to  tbe  name  of  Valentine— bad  no 
idoubt  of  it  witb  sucb  a  motber,  trusted  he  inlierited  some 

^^^her  beaûty,  mtist  be  excused  from  sending  anytbing 


jre  sobstantîâHhan  goc^Tërsfiës,-tlîe  dlâtàûcé,  ét& 


Theynamed  tbe  baby  Greorge,  after  bis  patemal  grand« 
father-^George  Hamilton  Valentine  it  stood  on  ^b« 
record,  and  tbe  happiness  of  Austin  aod  Katherine  Val- 


T 


3^ 


'*>*' 


^ 


-wr^J  roirj^e  j,ji^^j^^ 


S        t- 


»Iso,  and  verr  firm-firm^.     '  ''"'  J^dicious  she  was 

on  earth  she  ever  A«J  u  .  '  "^  "*»  ">e  one  ci«.f..r- 
with  an  her  h^w"  Xtr^tT'  l-«>-she  wSThim 
«»i»«s    ove  Go«,as  Hel^''»"'' "■"»  """^  «>>d  soûl  '^ 

«^«y  even  hère  béGW,  io  h^  h-it"""  °°'  W  «■«  P*^- 

MadamValenti„e„a^„oe:Z;^rC''*'P""--    And 
tom  sent  abroad  to  schoSl  "^  H?'   ^^  "'°''''»  "<>«  We 

prince byS^"dW„'"]t  f '•?"'"  hS^Tt      ■ 

winsome  smile  «bd  Jf»^  Sî  ""ï  '^'"'y  ^«i  and 
'Whtof.hat  kingfy  brow^d  h.T  ■*"»  »  Prin«by 
ail  hearts-even  M  a  b^ri.      ***""*  face-he  won     •  ' 

.''n<ryagteX°la'^ihe  had  „a«e..  fa  ^^ 
W> tosel».a lif  ;,^'T;°%>  ""Je,  .he .un    g? 


^ 


# 

'•€-■ 


v>- 


*•  f  '^'^  ^ 


^W'i 


LOVmS    YOUNG    DREAJÊ,    /1^        #|)j 


-..*, 


e  Latin  verses  with  fluency, 
With  it  ail  h^-grew  and 
beanstalk,  indeed,  and  at 
in  his  very  much  em 


::\ 


of  ft  doting'tnan  and  wbman.  But  môstly  hç  studied,  hè 
was  fairly  industrious,  he  had  his  own  notions  of  noblesse 
oblige^  and  what  it  became  â  prince  to  know  ère  he  came 
into  his  kingdom.  He  had  a  résident  tutor,  besidesthcse 
masters,  he  hadapretty  taste  for  music,  played  the  piano '. 
and  sang,  until  his  mothcr  thought  him  a  modem  Mo- 
zart, did  himself  cri^t  .on  the  violin,  painted  a  littlc, 
sketched  a  great 
spoke  French  an 
grew  ;  shot  up  1 
eighteen  stood  ily< 
broidered  velvet  sïa 

As  a  matter  of  course  he  broké  hearts,  though  eigh- 
teen is  fiUl  ypung  for  a  gentleman  to  go  energetically 
into  that  business^  But  the  truth  is,  he  could  not  hélp  it 
He  looked  and— plajred  the  mischief  !  Those  dark  bright 
eyes  that  laughed  so'  frankly  on  ail  the  world,  wrought 
sad  havoc  with  sixteen-year-old  hearts — indeed,  with 
hearts  Qli«lâ'Qii^b  to  know  better. 

He^#8kl|$ed^''  oh  1  like  an  angél  !"  criéd  out  a  chorus 
of  joung  soprano  voices.  He  sang  delidously.  He  was 
past  mastei*  of  the  art  of  croquet,  of  flirtation,  of  bil- 
liards,  boating,  archery,  base-bail  ;  what  was  there  he  did 
not  do  to  perfection  ?  At  eighteen  ^i^^^^lf»  his  mother 
was  not  the  only  lady  initthe  CanU^^  universe  who 
thought  the  Sun  ardse  with  his  rising,  and  set  when  his 
bewildering  présence  disa]^peared. 

And  just  her&  when  Eden  was  at  its  fairest,  sunniest, 
sweetest,  the  seipent  came,  and  after  him— the  déluge  ! 

"  Mother,"  said  Greorge  Hamilton  Valentine,  one  day 
at  breakfast,  "  I  think  I  shall  take  a  rûiï  over  the  border, 
and  spend  a  week  or  two  in  New  York.  Parker  can 
corne,  too,  if  you  think  ithe  wicked  Gothamites  will  gob- 


»    ■i, 


raGofiiTse^ïïf" 


Toronto  is'apt  to  pall  on  a  frivolous  mind."      j         ;j 

Of  course,  she  said  Yes.  *  He  did  pretty  fnûch  tuslie 
pjeased  in  everytfaii^  by  thts  time.    Ëven  ber  gçntle. 


*  tf 


*i> 


'M 


^OJ»-^^    TOtWG    Z>Jl£AJf. 

I 


,  ià%  #™f • '^i^^- 


silken  chain  was  îelt  as  a  f«**     •     ', 

He  .00.  che  c.iscr«^r3id\lrSort,;Tt  "^-^^^^^ 
■       drawmg.room  car  for  Ne«r  York     Bu,  h;  5T  *"'  ^''  " 
m  a  week.  «,r  in  two  nor  inTk'  *  ''"'  ''°'  '"«urn 

fivei  Mr.  Parker  wrotë  a  Cer?h'"  fn   *'  ">«  «■>"  <>' 
.        boo,b  i„t„  ,he  paS  ™VS  at  home"'''/  """^''-K 
message  to  flash  over  the  w  re"  with^?  T"  "*"'""  « 
»ummoning  the  wanderers  S  '"'  ^«-«'"ess, 

-tent^e„rpLX.:^:'^t^a7"  ^"i."-  ^  «'-'«  of 

-  she  looked  furtively  aLSr  ,T  *"''  ""^  '"'"^  !  'hen 
oisely  the  san,e  as  ever  HL  h^'>  k°".-  "*  ""^  P'"- 
fuli  o(  his  Wnt  ByZ:  trin  ^Th/  V°*  ^P'"'^-  ^"d 
breath  of  relief.  There  wL.'  ^'"t""'"'"  «'■'«w  a  deep 
«e-  OnIyMrs:Tinker  whTh  T  '"u"»*  ""*'  ^"e  could 
fat*  M  five  yearVoldlH''r*'''^^  **«««'•  Georgie's 

him  to  the  po?n7of  eXir"'''''  ^  '^"'  ^"^  ^^^ 

.>usthave;  andafterahu„Sex,„t  h"""*"*""  °^'S^ 
«ducing  Mrs.  Tinker  almosMo  the  v      °''."'' '''""^' 
protestations  of  eternal  ^?.n  '° .*«/"?«  of  tears  witb 
showed  her  the  photô^aoh'r  A  H  m'"'**  '™'"  ''«••.  "e 
,   "'he,n,andshrrekedfshriek  a„H    **"' tinker  looked 
old  eyes  *ith  her  virtu6us  ol'd  h    T'^S*  hershocked 
.    hadnoclothe^on  ornëxtL         "^"'^    For-thehussy 
conside^ed  non^ZTLTi^r"'  ""L*"*'  **"■  tinker 
«  balleC  or  anTwnrenhJhf     ."""^'^'^''Crook.or 
shipid  oid  lil«    -^  «"I-ghtened  or  Parisian.  in  her 

wicIS'  LXr^y^u^r/oun"""'  ""'^  '"  ^o"  '    Th, 

'ï#or,i.s.';o„'greproS    "Kf  °'"  '""*   **"• 
Géorgie,  my  d?ar-Ido'eft  „o»,     i        T  ''""^'  "«»«'■ 


•  *yo»  »ee  she  iAn  tÏKhte?    H„w"    Ti  ï^  «^'«o»  '    Don't 
,^,  fntigûts?    Howcouldsheperformonth. 


.^^.t  ï  '-^^'.^S^Si,  ^\%-MlA*-Â-hhj^Ai 


'-'à 


•  (!•■ 


LOVES    YO UNG    DREAM. 


■«9 


trapèze  wîth  petticoats  flapping  about  her  heels  ?    ^^^ 
is  one.     Now,  look  at  this  ;  she  has  a  dress  on  her— W^if% 
a  costume  ;  they're  ail  ïn  costume.    Bother  your  modesty  ! 
You're  old  enough  to  know  better  !     Look  hère,  I  say  ; 
did  you  cver  in  ail  your  life  see  anyj[ne  half  so  lovely  ?" 

**  I  never  saw  any  one  tialf  so  indécent  !  Do  you  call 
that  a  dress  —M^z/  thing  !  Why,  it  don't  cover  her  nasty 
knees  !  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  take  'em  away,  and  put 
'em  in  the  lire  !  She  must  be  a  little  trollop  to  be  took 
in  that— that  scandalous  costoom,  if  that's  its  name. 
What  would  your  blessed  mamma  say,  Master  George, 
4f  she  saw  them  sinful  pictures?" 

"  I  say,  look  hère,"  says  Master  George,  ratheralarmed, 
** don't  you  go  and  say  anything  to'the  mater  about  this. 
Youh-e  as  good  as  sworn,  you  know.  And  l'il  thank  you 
not  to  call  names,  Mrs.  Tinker.  She's  no  more  a  trolloif 
than — '  than  you  are,'  "  is  on  the  point  of  George's 
tongue,  but  having  a  gênerai  respect  for  old  âge,  and  a 
»  very  particuîar  respect  for  Mrs.  Tinker,  he  suppresses  it, 
and  stands  lo<5king  rather  sulky. 

;  "  Bless  the  dear  boy  J"  cries  Mrs.  Tinker,  moUified  at 
sîght  of  her  darling  in  dudgeon  ;  "  I  won't,  then,  only, 
if  she's  a  friend  of  yours,  Master  Géorgie,  do  beg  pf  her 
to  put  on  her  clothes  next  time  î  Do  'ee  now,  like  a 
lôvey!" 

George  laughs  ;  it  is  not  in  his  gunny,  boyish  nature 
to  be  irate  for  more  than  à  minute  at  a  time. 

"l'Il  tell  her,"  he  says,  gleefully;  "she'll  enjoy  the 
joke.  Tinker,  she's  just  the  jolliest,  prettiest,  sweetest 
little  soûl  the  su»  shines  on  to-dayl  And  she's  the 
dearest  friè^id  I  hâve  in  the  world." 

"  Ah  !"  sîfcrs  Tinker,  with  a  deep  groan.  "  What's  hêr 
name,  Master  George  ?" 


"^*TMimv;  tsnVlt  a^pi 


~It  seeiDS  to  1 


somehow.    Mimi  Trillon." 
l^lepaastt.  adrcamy  rapturous  look  cc^es  intohis. 


%  - 


1 1' 


^•^ 


70 


^r^s  Youi^e  pgsAu. 


,-3' 


mx 


i^ 


* 
t 


•      eyes;  aflush  passes  over  hi,  f      '"  "       '  '      ^ 

.    -Mrs  Tinker  knows  fL 

-      Jinker  remember»  and  a  J        "^  ^^"  »So.  but  M« 

*»^>»«/  is  she.  Ma<:fA..  r^ 
„   "  Well,    she'sLZ's  a  31'':  "•"«^»  -«t  . 
Geo^e.  '*   P™^««<»»i   lad^"  aos,.er, 

t:^?^^^^^lXZSl    He  -ooks  .„de., 

„,  lUUe  lp,e  i„  au  the  wSd.^"*  *'^  "■«  «««^t.  preWeft 
one  iook<  lîL-^        • 

bnngherself  ,o  tell  taies  cfwî^    '"''"'••  *«  caunot 
n»  but  fean,  u,uch.  and  tru«s  t?V  ^^  ""*  ^^^  "^^       ■ 
'bings  straight,  and  to  ate^n™  ,       ""  '°  »«  <=™oked 
swam  fo.get.   .  '       ^'^"«e  *»  make  this  youthful 

.       lady  ht  met'rCw  Vo^  •  "'"■''■r  "o*  >he  p.^fe,sionk, 
«-e  day,  some  t„o  „on*',  wf  •'"  "^"8  "^^ze.     For 

«be  toom  without  noticin/k     T,  "  POcket,  and  quit.  *  ? 
«baiices  to  picfc  it  „p     xàe  J  i,        "  ••''  "other  who 
;  ,  «««wj  surprises  »er!^       ^'  P^^'  «^ool-girlish  lookT^ 
*   „  O»"-  old  Gconrie  ••  it  h-_- 

.        Madam  v»ia.°Z^*.  ^<"»P"tg  Jaàlr.' 


t 


:-:^^ 


j ,,  ^-ir-K^^^ 


r;  ZÇF£>S    YoirNG    DREAH.  71 

through,  her  face  flashintf  with  haughty  amaze  and 
disgust.  Then  another  feciTing—fear-— cornes,  and  turns 
her  whîte  to  the  very  lipsi  Illy  spblt,  illy  written,  vul- 
gar  in  eveiy  word,  it  is  yet  *  love-letter— a  lov^-letter  in 
wbich  a  pi^mised  marriagé  is  spoken  of.^  Thefsignature 
puzzles  her.  ji,  George  has  told  his  beloved  Mrsî  Tinker's 
fancy  name  for  her,  and  it  has  tickled  tjie  erratic  hunior 
of  the  vivacious  Mirnît     She  has  adopted  it. 

"  Some  horrible  pet  narife,  no  doubt,"  the  lady  thinks. 
"Gracioùs  Heaven!  what  a  strange  infatuation  for 
George  r^  ' 

Nothîhg  is  said.  Mr.  Valentine  is  consulted,  is 
shocked,  is  enraged,  is  panic-stricken,  but  his  wife  is 
convinced  iftis  not  yet  too  late.  She  will  take  him  away, 
and  at  once— a»  once  !  They  will  go  to  Europe  ;  he 
shall  make  the  tour  of  theworld,  if  necessary,  with  Sir 
Rupert  ;  he  shall  never  retum  to  Toronto.  What  a  mer<y 
—what  a  direct  interposition  ,of  Providence— that  this 
letter  feil  into  her  hands  when  it  did  ! 

George  is  told  the  wish  of  his  heart  shall  be  gratified. 
He  shall  throw  up  study,  and  travel  for  the  next  three 
years.  Uncle  Rupen  wishes  it  so  much  !  She  will  go 
with  him  to  Spa,  where  §ir  Rupert  at  présent  is,  will 
spend  the  winter  in  Italy,^nd  retum  home  in  the  spring. 
Is  not  George  deljghted  ? 

George»does  liot  look  del|ght6d.  Six  months  .ago  he 
would  hâve  done  so,  but  we  change  in  six  months.  He 
looks  reâective,  and  a  good  deal  put  out,  and  goes  up  to 
his  room  and  writes  rather  #long  letter,  and  takes  it  to 
thfcpost  himself.    Then  he  waits.. 

Préparations  begin,  go  on  rapidly;  in  a  week  they 
will.  be  ready  to  start  But  just  two  days  before  the 
week  ends  the  terrible  blow  falls.  He  goes  up  to  his 
room  one  night  and— is  fteen  rf5  more  !    He  mairies 


moonlight  flitting,  with  a  knapsack  and  a  well-filled 
pocket-book*    He  is  "o'er  the  jborder  and  awa'  wi"-. 


■  >.-s  ■.. 


^Ê^%- 


j  vé 


•         Il 


'1 


1.':?'' 


slums  of  New  York  î  s"'"^°  "air     from  the  baçk 


\ 


i^ 


X^. 


fc 


1./ 

M*  ' 


Vîf*  s 


# 


'  GHAPTER  Vin. 

LOST    FOR    A    WOMAN. 
I*  is  gonel    They  do  not  hear  from  him  for 

degrees.    It  matters  not-were Th  "1  ^  -  the  trapèze  by 
as  stainless  as  some  qu«ns  of  ?r.t,/  ?      °u°'  '™S«Jy- 

de^that„orao,tr<.™^\pt.!Se'J^A;*f;r  ^ 
dïed  in  thèse  onlianf  ««a      "^  i^^^siDie.    Hemighthave 

àod  his  memor?  l«™?h^'? t,  ^'  '"«5'"  brokcn  proudly, 

p^ect  .hi„/„Tr„rt:^^  -  't^'cr  ^r-^."-^ 

Wm  in  the  first  fre.fzy"f X     h1  î.         ^""T  *"  "'"'' 
thousand  times  worse     iC,  "« '' Tf»'»  *»■>  dead,  a 

«îght  and  existence. evemhtoi,Sf      ""l "l»"»  ''''"«^  > 
Wm,  they  tear  his  l«tei2^7„  ^.  'J"  '«'"■'ged  to    ' 

^    emwforget    Their  hearts  go  in  sackcJoth  «»* 

»  \  ■  ,     , 


■•iàlSSÏ 


m 


i" 


«T^'^ii^"'  -'.'^f 


-A- 


^^|^'- 


\zos\for  a   womaak 


-73 

'    ^â^i:^"'?^^^'    The  wo^of  Toronto    ^ 
isstirred  toits  deepest  depths  ;  it  is  more  thaii  a  nine- 
days    wonder-it  is  whispered  with  bated  breath    and  ^' 
awe.stncken  faces,  in  very  patricien  fatnilies  in^ïj  ^^  / 

.    maqy  and  many  a  day.  •       »"uccu,  lor  ^ 

«„H^**  f  ^'^  Valentine  grives  the  world  for  love.  ^ 
.  and  his  place  knows  him  no  more  ^  ^ 

,h.^'  ^^^î'^'' and  mother  live,  and  bear  their  misery  and 

world      It  is  m  their  nature.  .  They  hold  thèmselvea 
more  defiantly  erect  if  possible,  but  he  would  beTSa^e      ' 

tT.em      ir       ^'"'"'l'^  ""™"  '^«^^  «°"  t«  «ith^r  of 
An^Tin  V  ,    r*''  ^^  ^^'  and  richer  and  stîll  richer      ■ 
Austm  Valentine  grows,  and  Sir  Rupert  writes  from      1 

Nice  in  a  despondent  strain,  thàt  he  isb^^ingftst  and 
Uiat  the  actress  stands  a  chance  of  writing  iefsetf  LaSy 
Valentme  ail  too  soon.  Lady  Valentine  she  may  t^ 
curse  her!  Austin  Valen^tine^mutters,  for  he,  U>T  ^  • 
broken  man,  but  never  heir  to  his  millions.  He  bethinks 
h.m  ail  at  qnce  of  a  youthful  cousi«,  also  a  VaTentinÏ 
hal  forgotten  until  now,  veiy  poor,  ând  living  in  I  î^  '  " 
inote  part  of  Gornwall,  and  sends  forJin  at  of  c^  ^ A 

to  >^«SLT^^  •"*"  ?^^''  wondering,  and  hârdly  able       ' 
to  reahze  hiâ  fairy  future.    He  has  been  brought  ud  m 
poverty  and  obscdfW~has  never  exp^ed  anS  JTlJ^* 

Rupert    Ausdn.  Gçorge-what  ^ce  has  he?   «fc^' 
\^Z  f""!/^'*^^  1*^*^  ^"^  S»^«^  the  title-wM 
has  ho^  ï       "^^  ''  "P  °°  '    ^^^  Vane  ValeX 
ment  into  his  hands.  /    .         .  .^^' -'.r'^^S^^.:- 

!!!r!!^*  «^^"'>  dft'-fc  yoath  of  twem^  wIth  good 

VatenZî  i'!.'  "»"'"  <~  "'  "  '°'«'  '°  «e™  MnAuS!' 
wao  i»  lott.    AU  the  better  for  that.  periu^;  no  chance 


•'^S 
-J^^-- 


''J''^ 
^'■k; 


ft 


y 


■;■«>; 


5vi»is^. 


■/( 


JU>sr  jfos 

t«*k  of|teeinblanc#wilAvèr 

J"  -  J*  -        »•  P°*iPeW  jsodag  prig  ,be  littie 

cation  leaves  nothing  to  be  ^esfrL^^^^    ^obust,  bis  edu, 
_   He accepta  ^'^X^lorn^X^^t^^f  ^^ "^"  ^^"^  " 
Fortune  .^^ias  upbn  him  doesn-^     *^^  ?^*^^"'»^^^^^^ 

.   Wspwn  agàm/'    •  Z*^"  ^•'^^^  «"d  that  the«kingbas  g^ 

,     P*«ntsinearlyboyhood  and.  *'®.  ^^*  ^eath  of  his 

a. locket  .    ^  ^^°'^'  *«<*  ^^ose  picture  he  wearsS 

•        '^J"^  Justin  and  Katberiûe  VaJen*i««  ^ 


w 


1 


wÇat  he  is,  and.makç  the  niost  of  1 

^e  aghîng  void  is  the,^  i„  iX! 
^^!?j;S'^l3rtheIong^earrr?-^ 
u     !^fflK**®°'^°e  visibly  àA 

forg^we  ^«^t  ail  onMaj 


|and  ail  lhe,ti,ne 
and  aches  flnd 

JWks,  ^*tîîe«  frorii 
j^^ss  in  whose  per> 

^^okco  betwccit 


' 


f 


v^' 


•;^ï4- 


r'  "^  *  -"»'»«'    ^ 


■:\ 


ZOST    fOS    A    WOUfÀir. 


^^J       ^     ^  •*■    *^  >' 


75 


'À' 


;  tWs  father  and  rnother.     If  the  waters  of  Lethe  were  lio 
fable   they  would  drink  af  it  greedily,  and  so  forget' 

Sx>kenTi.rr'"  °"^^'  '''  "°^^'  P^'^^P^'  ^-  ^«^^  --  . 

tw^H  .K  T^t.*^'^'  '^^  ^""'"^^^  °^  "^^"^  Valentine  his 
nent.eth  b.rthday  occurs,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
the  thunderbolt  had  riven  their  hearts,  aparty  is  given 
.at  Valentine  House,  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  ifis  a 
d.nner  party,  to  which,  in  addition  to  theyoung  people 
invued  to  meet  the  heir,  many nrery  great  persJnages  are 
bidden  and  corne.     It  is  a  diôner  paity  thàt  Mrs.  Tiaker 

tî!^.?^°7^  ^""-T^^'    Something  occur^that   nighi 
that  ismarked  with  a  whitè^stoïie  forever  after  i^  ter 

Na  one  has  moaj^ne^  the  lost  heir  more  deep^y.  more 
desp^iringly  than^fefe.  Hers  is  gentler  grief  than  that  of 
the  parents,  i|  ,s  unmixed  with  anger  or  bitterness-her 
tears  flow  at  first  in  ceaseless  streams. 

She  has  Joved  her  boy  almost  as  dearly  as  his  o^ 
mother,  only  with  a  love  that  has  in  it  no  pride,  no  baser 

^losF  -  ^"""^  '°*^^*'    ^^^  ^""^  ^""^^  and  she  haa 

\u!  ^^*!i^*  stout,  unromantic-Iooking  old  woman,  but  té 
\Jove  and  lose  is  as  bitter  to  her  faithful  heart,  it  raay  be. 
.^s  though  she  were  a  slim.  sentimental  maid  of  sixtoen 
Her  handsome  Master  0eorge;  her  bonny  boy,  the' 
'm^^KS^^  ^^^  ^""^^  ""^  **^'"  life-what  was  the 
Apd^li^  night  of  the  birthday /te*  some  bitter 
d|o^8  ram  from  th|^royal  old  eyes  at  tbe  t^ought  Of  the 
days  and  the'heir  f^ver  fi^n^  ..^  ^    ;     Y  '     ^ 

-   Sl^Wresented  the  <^ming  oflhîs  ybung  usurper 
from  the^r»t,  but  »he  has^eseated  in  aiiençe,  of  course 
r  «ho  has  ^cvdrilked  hiÉT.  she  wôuld  feel  itWtreason  to 
her  lost  dariing  to  %e  Win  ^cn  if  be  were  likeable. 
But  he  is  not,  ^  i|,.Wack^vifed,  he  i»  'àugljty,  hé 


n. 

.-V."! 


"1 


V        - 


-si 


i 


«i 


oS^ 


^ 


mmiiiM^-ef,, 


J 


fe&, 


S'«t.J»4  ZnrôughfuD  ro?"  "'"'■'^"  *"h  dis- 
\lack  for  anythi,^,  but  he  Vever  „  "  "°"« ''™^«lf 
profuse  in  his."  Aw-Th^'  "I  '  "*"""«  »  "p.     He  i, 

Jo.ce,  MA,  Tinker  su,  -i"  ?"""  ■^PO"  '"  'east  and  ,J 
■•oom,and  inp«  her eye! "nd  w"?  ~""°««b'e  little 
--«>.  and  .ak.  -^^^t^^^:^ 

«anng  nk^  Bottom.  .he  ;tv«- *°"'«  r*  '"«  «  "<»^ 
.chee/c<^/V,^:»%'^-,^'«ili,^„„„T,„,^ 

-^^^-^y^TS.  :çr  "•^-  ^^  o« 

»^--.  "«"/Xe^a'^r^anrtfi  '■■'  «^V  <^k 

^Her;^,e  s^:^  She  llves  hère.  doe,n>t  "' 


^ 


\ 


)V*i>ir  Aiie  dô. 


»   we  foôtpian  admitâ,  leisuwly .  « 


iiit. 


X7,  ht  loyet 

s  with  dis- 
y^  penny  he 
Jet  himself 
%  he  ne ver 
«p.  He  is 
»es8  is  the 

Mr.  Vane 
st  and  re- 
ible  little 
*oôks  at 
•etrolpec- 

«d;  t  It  Is 
c  à  lion, 
'ould  do 


in  ker  at^ 
buttercd 
emental 
>  à,  side 

>,  strid- 
»^er  the  * 
oi  th6 
«^as  an- 


whether  she'Il  want,  to  see  you-whafs  vo,.r  kV  •      " 
mygoodfeJIar?"  'rûats  your  biTsii^ss, 

"My  business  is  with  M r<!   tî«i,^        t 

her  I  hâve  a  mes=«ge"for  ht Vthrn'^she  wu'l  f^  "f  h"" 

conversation  are  on  ^^^i  r  J"''  "°<*  <'°*«'  «"d 
where,  long  beflrrand'^^ot?  ^r,^^'^  ^"'^ 
"art  up  in  his  mi„d,  as  fie  sSnrand  ôokftiïïSK' 
^«ard  eyes.  „p  a.  .hese  glea.ing  J,  '^,':^t 

- 1  note  the  flow  of  the  wmy  yeu, 
B«  dead  m  my  hci«  ai,  it»  hope»  aLd  fem 

Th«  «weet-aoented,  beeJiMmted  clowr  r 


^^s^ddeopangr^nashishearC?— 

itall.    Even  mv  motW  T'.?     T**"'  '  ""^  ««™ed 

more  pride  than  î^^f    A„rf'*   °'  f?  ""  '««'  «'»ay»- 
iidc.  istabShir     F  ™'*8^''  both heriove and 

You  wanted  me.  mv  frÎAn/ï>»»  — 

dearoldvoiceh.  mmaiÇ^d  aX"^"  "?'°^.'  ' 
ffiroat  as  he  h<iiÂ  il  ^î^^f.^i'  "  *''>  nsesTïhîT: 
Item  under  th.  vL^'  S  fcl       °°«.  ^'"*    "«  '«k. 


li^s 


V 


'!«? 


ç-^^ 


WOMAir. 


ra»'    f~. 


>,*' 

'é 


the  tall.  plush  young  man  has  been  sum- 

Tinkerr        ^^^^^^-^^    '^^'''■^°"*'"  ni ç,  Mrs. 
orgoitenmtn!     Oh!  never,  never,  never!    She  clasns 

Bcream.     one  stands  with  dUated  eves  nnrf  i«„     • 
«..érable,  »aki„g  .he  old  face  ÏÏ.S^^'°^~^''^  ""• 
Dear  old  friend,  yes,  I  see  you  remeatbèr     It  i. 
^o„r  scape^rac^your  runaway  •  l^.  t^^  IZ 


W  say.    And  now  down  the  wrinkled  aïTeks  tears  rnll 

^^T""  r"  ^""''  ^^"'•'  ^'^'^''  Master  George^'"^ 

*ie  takes   the  old    ha^    «rrini,!^^    *    i  "^"'S*^- 
kis?esit.  .  ^^*  wrinkled,  toU-worn,  a^d 


ii^°«iiil^reakjny 
Geore,^!:!  fit  to 


<^. 


ïhanks  and  prais&b©^ 
own  house,  and 
."^'owû  ho^ 


ast^  George!  Màst^r 
I  kaow'^yott'd  conie 


-W»uf  Corne  jn,  cwô»  in.    Ifs  vour 


.m 


{",  couip  m.    itsyour 
j)in  yôu  hère." 

lauffh  ^^*mZ  ^oSéT  "#•  "^^nker  l'^he  says,  with  a  dreaîy 


leety  ojght. 


Oh  my  deaiï'how  wet  you  are  !  and  how  Dale  «nri 
%%  and  fagged-mce,  aow  th«  I  see  you  in  tte  Ugtet- 


* 


■;■  '  I  i 


g'-v^. 


M 


LOST    FOM    A     WOMAir. 


i 


:n 


My  dear,  niy  dear,  my  owa  Master  George  !  toW  changed 
you  are  !"     ,. 

"  Changed  !"  he  says.  "Good  Heaveas,  y«s  !  If  you 
knew  the  life  I  hâve  Icd-^ —  But  we^annot  staad  talk- 
ing  hère— some  of  the  servants  \«[ill  be  passing,  and  I 
must  not  be  seen.,  Take  me  sôoifewhere  where  we  can 
talk  undisturbed,  and  where  I  mjay  get  warm  ;  I  am 
.  chilled  to  the  bone."  i     ^; 

Her  eyes  #re  running  over  afl^ain.  The  change  in 
him  !  Oh,  the  change  in  him  î--^o  worn,  jso  jaded,  so 
hollow-eyed,  so  poorly-clad,  so  ujiterly  fj^len  from  his 
high  estate  !  i  i  •*: 

„  Shc  leads  the  way  to  her  littlé  sitting-roo|nii,  and  he 
finks  weariiy  into  the  easy-chair  jshe  places  fdr  him  bi-, 
|oro  the  fire,  and  places  his  hand  Over  his  eye^  as  if^M 
îeaping,  cheery  light  dazzled  an||^liilinded  him. 

7"  Sit  thee  there,  Master  George,  and  don't'ee  talk  for 
a  bit  Rest  and  get  warm,  and  \'i\  go  and  fetch  çuramaC 
to  cat."  ; 

He  is  well  disposed  to  obey  ;  jhe  is  wom  out  in  body 
«nd  mind.  He  has  been  recently  iîl,  he  has  eaten  scarcely 
aâything  ail  day,  he  has  hardly  a  penny  in  his  pocjket^ 
and  "the  world  is  ail  before  him,  where  to  choose.'*:  ^ 

HjB  sits,  and  half  sleeps,  so  utterly  weary  is  hé,  so 
swéet  to  him  are  the  rest,  and  the  Mmth  of  the /fire. 
But  he  wakes  up  as  Mrs.  Tinker^rSpis  laden  with 
hot  coffee,  chicken,  méats,  bread  jPK'ine.  His  eyes 
iight  with  the  gladness  of  hard,  grindinghunger. 

''^"Thanksj  my  dear  old  woman  \  you  hâve  not  f<irgot- 
ten  my  tastes.    By  Jove  !   I  am  glad  you  brougkt  me 
%5    açmething,  ^or  ï  am  uncommonly  sharp-set."  ] 

She  watches  him  eating  and  drinking,  with  the  keitili 
deligiHt  women  feel  in  minîstering  to  the  bodily  wa^ts  of 
p»en  they  love.    He  pushes  thgj 


iaughs  at  her  rapt  look. 

"I  wonder'if  Ne'er-do-well  ever  had  such  à  l0ving 
T-^d  heart  to  cliiig  fcp  him  before^"  he  says;  "the  world  it 


■  T 


'^■■'"4' 


(f 


"    '5^*^ 


•         W  ,vi.|.out  d«;«' iL""„'tV-"°''  "  '■^"  ■"«™»" 

P<«»  'hat  I  and  the  A/7°  0*1         -..^^ ''"''"»  I  «- 
»ay  to  —,  but  neveV  minrt     r      ""  **  "«»  °"  ou, 

«0  work  my  passaire  m.,  !  P'""  "^  »"<'  »»>  Roine 

Mrs.  Tinken    l^X  andW?'''  """d.where  ^,î^, 

.      «"t  there,  I,-ll  come  Uick  anrt?"^"'  '""  ''«'*«■»  ">e  Paa 

«  cl«n  b^,  „,  .«  ~f „»„»1««  J?"oue  day,  «^  n^ke 

»ot-I  „iu  h„,  yoûto^"!  '.'1  ™°'"«  «"»»  "kely 

•n  a»  hour  or  twa  anS  Z  *•    "' J**"*"    ^u.  Im  off 

««I^rfy  old  facelblest  i. .    R  °'  '"""'  «"o"'  P'-np, 

-    forever.'    And  «S, likS^l  lî?"'/?'''  "<»  i«  "ay  b. 

.contmry  with  me  !'  ••  ^  Gummidg^  <  tUot,  ^„ 

/  "Oh.  my  dear  !  „y  S«°  7'y't^  '  ^»  "^b^  ' 

.     "Ah!  I  know  «bout  SLe^ci'""'*  ■'"P^'""— " 
h~rd  down  yonder  i„  the  tow„     uui.^''^ "•"="'•  "I 
«hère  are  hiehiink<  !-  -  "  "  ""s  Wrthdav  and  • 

^«-  o?  W::i^"^f  ^'*- «.'^-seoèached.  and 
He'»  not  fit  to  black  vouT.h       *l  '^*  **■"  »'  W"i  I 

"ddo^ell.    Letme^VÙpand,L?!'''''"'°~'»«'»^k 
"««.  Tœr^T^5ï^".i»  hand. 


I» 


■^^-^spz-'^it.  „  ^ 


'  V-;' 


ZOST    PÔIÎ   A     IVOMAlk 


T 

r 


Si 

turned  to  whine  and  bcg.  Not  that  I  woulc^  dot  go  down 
on  my  knees.  mind  you,  to  crave  their  pardoi^  for  tho 
hcart-break  I  hâve  causea  them  if  that^were  ail.  But  it 
would  not  beall-it  would  be  misupàeràtood.  I  miirht 
be  repulsed.  and-and  I  know  myself-Mo/ might  awakc 
thç  devil  withja  me.  I  would  be  t&ught  to  hâve  re- 
turned  for  the  money— a  comfortaMe  home— I  could  not 
stand  that.  I  wrote  again  and  agaià^^  first  year  to  ask 
their  forgiverfes8-I  never  asked,  nor  meant  to  ask  for 
anythmg  besides,  and  they  never  answered  me.  A  man 
éan  t  go  on  doing  that  sort  of  thing  forever.  Some  day 
jmont^  from  ihis-you  wiU  tell  them  if  you  like,  and 

/r  '  ""^  ^**"'*^  "^""^  '°  ^^^-     Tell  ray  mother  I 

ask  her  pardon  with  ail  my  soûl  ;  tell  her  I  love  her  witH 
an  my  h^rt.    Tell  her  I  would  give  my  life~ay,  twice  / 
over,  to  undo  the  past.     But  tell  her  nothing  to-night. 
I  was  homesick,  Mrs.  Tiiiker;  I  wanted  to  see  you-I 
rcally  think  I  wanted  to  see  you  most  of  ail.     Think  of  , 
•     ÎT*  ,r"°^  ^"°&  i>»  ïove  with  you,  and  you-fifty-five. 

isn  t  it?  *  :  . 

j  He  laughs  again,  but  the  dJ:rk  bright  eyes  that  look 
a<  the  fire  see  it  didily,  as  if  through  water.  In  the 
pause  comes  the  sonnd  of  singing  from  up-stairs-a  , 
taan  s  voice-a  ténor,  tolerably  stroflg  and  tuneful,  but 
Mrs.  Tihkcr  listens  with  a  lïSôk  of  much  distaste,  and 
makes  a  face,  as  though  she  were  tasting  soœefeWng  verr 
nasty  mdeed.  ;.-  '  »       •'  . 

"It's  him!"  she  says,  in  explanation,  and  George 
smiles  ;  he  knows  she  means  Vane  Valentine. 

"' I^t^A'hort--^ive  le  roi;  is  evidently  not  your 
motto,  yôH/fo^h  old  person,"  hc  remarks  ;  «don't  you 
know  a  live  £^  ié  better  than  a  dead  lion  ?  Be  wise  ia 
yapr  advancmg  ye^rs.  my  deai-  old  nurse,  and  cultivut* 
i:J:T- !Z^^^°^'°^-    "^  "  ^^  ^^  ^  ^^^-onetr  and  a  mil. 


-4I.»...:..T__1j  "Z^         1  '^  "^  ^  Paronet,  and  a  mlU 

^^^^^^ff^^STOlr^ïy  gf éâTpérso 

He  rises,  put»  his  pipe  in  his  pocket,  and  stretches 


•^  L, 


41 


•'•it 


-1-- 


l^. 


ï 


Fk 


=  t» 


V    * 


h 


"i^- 


•(V 


I,    _^v 


'i 


out  hîs  hand  for  hîs  hat   :She  rîàfe^Cr.^  «  U  '''    "    ''   ^  ' 
ciy.      '  ^  ^"®  "^,^  top,  wfth  a  sort  ^^ 

"Not  going!    Noe^like  thisf    Ôh    Maéer  r      '  "     ' 
dear  Master  George,  nôt  like  this  !"       '        ''-'  ^^^"^^' 

i         J'-'^Ke  this,  mv  frienri       <^i     i  •  v  '  -'  '      '  ,   «   , 

for  me  than  yoo  can  help.    rmtTbf  Vh  '     "  '""'''*'  ' 
•     b«aÎ"°P^''°'^''<''-^"«-"'>«^veo.WWouId      ' 

George  i    Oh,  my  bly'  haf^LveS^:-  ^^^^ 

•       manyand  manya  tiliie    .h,,.,         -^^-        "  ""es^arnis 

■     breast,  that  I  love  lik-  m^^  •^\^°"''"'  ''*??  °'^  -"? 

dea:/der'„!°^:,tvrîuie m';^'n°i ''•'"'*^>^i  ' 

.     Heaven.  .,e  !  •iclîfi:!::^  ^  «'^P  "^'"^  W 
^    face,, s  U  llto.tZÂ  --«;;."  Ms  .oSe,  ift.bF-r, 

-     Inever  corne  ro.ee.a„yo„ee."e.-"'''1^'*  '"  ^>--«      .  ^ 
And  then  he  is  ^-on*»     tk«-^  «  '         r>'"'^> 

,    «airs  .he  ,a..  ^^oJ'Z::':^^l''ri'^J£:^ 
"    h«ntingsong,asthedooropenr  °'„  "•""!.  Vale„fi,^V_.     , 


^. 


^  4 


;4' 


r 


i  a  sort  fl»f 
er  Geoi^e,    ' 
is  wîiter  aî« '-  , 

M  n 

^e  it  harder  • 
îseen  yod, 

îart  would    - 

"'■■  -,  ■*-  ■  V 
ï  beàr  iiîu 

:».  JVÎaster 

hesé  arnas    .- 

îp  on,  my     '. 

-  Oh,  my 

s  hai  an4  ;;/ 
•ïîisf  own  '•  - 

sartti'weM'''-  ■.,- 


e;m  bis  « 
i'clfeqks  ,«  ' 
:ches  up,'" 

p  y  ou,  il 


y-J  àK4\'if 


■ï"  ' 


*r 


-£<?fr'  /•ojt:  A'-'wouAi^j^ 


h 


'f?f#^. 


!«' 


«;i 


83 


'■i' 


»  f 


^* 


■<î^' 


■:S' 


\*ir 


3>wn  tlj#  ,'^ 


.*- 


,^b 


'^i 


1"    ' 

1/ 


IV;  ■ 


turns  her  face  ,(,  the  waî    ILT**?"""  ""'  ^itl!"  >  ..i 

The  storni  continués  aU  nieht  aHW»ti=ï«,^    *!.  - 

ïnany  4Jsastei^  andwrecks  aSth   '         ^?'  *'^^*«aro 

-M  S,e  totales  .i^î^lf^';^^^^ 
lossof  e  ve^y  soûl  60  t,cJar4    "^    ^^  ^  ^  ^i^ 

by  J'te  ^?;K^^^!  ^^^'«"^*  mm  m,, 

Mrs    Ti   t*"^  '^'  "^u^"^"'  Wllo  d4B  lu  u^eaTt  f^i^  ^t 

*  madwpmftn,beatiag  tl^e  ai/tjtti  h«r  hanlScî^  JS::  ^^ 
cçiiiductingherself^Lrill?  il^^^^ 


t^. 


t'i' 


.1. 


■  .r 


^t' 


dowa 


* 


♦■"  .#-   '''??'*  P 


*:^t 


*^: 


^■'  nf 


'■f^ 


'  ^_  SfJ'v  «^îi.T^S^^j-  \if/.V  ^{l'f}s''l^^^ 


■iO^T-    7?£)je    A     tyoMAJf. 


^_^  Oh.  ™y  dear.„aa.er.  ,ou  are  „ot  .ng^  wjth  mt,  are 

Then  he  breaks  down  f  ^^'^  ***''«  ^^"^  ^ell." 

mater  TriHl  .    ^*"^^'"  ^^  «^^^iK  befôre  a  ffrief 

greater  and  more  sacred  than  her  own      "B„f  i  o^f  1 

angry,"  he  adds,  risinff  slowlv    "VoThIi     ^"' ^f "»  "«t 

strange  pathos  andgentleness  fnr  fll^  ?  ^^^'  '^^''* 

"George  loved  you  !"  '^f  ''*'*°'  P*^"^  »nan. 

It  is  tbe  first  Ume  that  name  bas  oassed  hU  lî,,»  /        ' 
f^    As  he  sp«..  „  ,e  .urns  «rhu'S«  ou^of  ^; 

ftodies  hâve  b«,  ide-tSeMa  daimed   ".^7  °' '''*' 
cwt  up  by  thé»  ,i,h  ^KT  .    '^'*""*''  !  o">era  were 


p  c'QtheG  ttuij  mher  relica 
»cm  w  a  jacket,  «né  on  the  lin- 


/ 


wef»iMen^«i~ 


/ 


■'p.mt-'^''!'' 


V    ■ 

-w  ,w>^  -y-y 


LOST    FOR-  A     WOMAN. 


«S 


ing,  which  is  ,black,  there  is  marked  in  small.  distinct  rcd 
xetters,  a  name,  "  G.  H.  Valentine."  Tha  body  on  wluch 
this  garment,  tig^htly  buttoned,  was  found,  was  that  bf  a 
tall  young  man  with  dark  hair  and  a  mustache  ;  a  fine- 
loofcing,  3i»uscular  young  fellow,  so  far  as  could  be  dis- 
covered,  after  some  days  in  the  water.  Hç  is  buried 
yoftder.  The  father  goes  and  kneels  by  the^little  mound 
of  snow-covered  sod,  and  what  passes  in>is  hçart  is 
known  only  to  Heaven  and  himself. 

Five  months  after  that,  Austin  Vale'ntine,  the  merchanr 
prince,  dies.     Hc  bas  never  held  up  his  head  again  •  the 
sight  of  his  heir  becomes  insupportable  to  him      That 
young  gentleman  is  sent  on  his  travels,  and  the  funeral  ' 
is  over  before  he  return^. 

For  Madam  Valentine-^well,  she  goes  on  with  the^ 
burden  of  life  somehow.     It  is  an  old  story.     «  The  heartv 
may  break,  yet  brokenly  Hve  on."     The  world  does  not  " 
see  much  différence      Only  the  Toronto  home  is  broken 
up  forever  ;  life  there  ail  at  once  grows  hateful,  ànd  she 
becomes  a  wanderer.     »he  will  hâve  no  fixed  place  of 
abode,  a  singular  restlessneé  possesses  her— ^he  résides 
hère,  there,  everywhere,  a|  the  fancy  seizes  h^.     Vane 
Valentine  waits  dutifully  (in  every  whim.     "What  com- 
fort  he  must  be  to  you  ;  suçb  â  gbod  young  mah.'?  every- 
body  says,  and  she  agrée*  |hd  tries  to  think  it  is  so-but 
he  ts  a  comfort  to  her.    Sh#  has  ^  cold  sort  of  lîking  for 
him  a  respe<:t  for.  his  judgment  and  good  sensé,  but  lov^ 
—Ah  !  well,  she  bas  loved  once,  and  once  suffices.     And 
so  existence  goes  on  for  ^till  three  years  more.     Mts 
linker  accompanies  her  always  ;   she  ciings  to  this  old 
servant,  she  is  a  iink  that  binds  her  to  the  past—thc  oirly    ' 
one.    ihe  eomes  wHh  VaiJfe  VâJeiitine  to  the  cottage  in 
the  suburbs  of  this  dull  little  New  Englatid  town  of    . 
Uan^ville,   because  it  i6  a  pléasant   placç  Tor  «  few 
«uuimn  weekH,  i^nri  onr  pl|c^  i,  much  tin»  samo  », 


-s. 


-.#'^ 


I* 


>. 


M 

'■;..*■ 


•^'fei 


Life  goes  on-ajmost  stagnant  in  Us  quiet  \  she  growe 

.     /      / 


.."V*' 


^•^ 


■.f   «tTtp.',çy 


WHICff 


1 
^■ECOItDS   4     TRAGEDY^      ^ 

old^racèfullyrshe  Is  a  woriian  «f  fine  présence  and 
-com„,andi„g  „,ien  still,  her  health  is  unbmken  onlv 
she  has  almost  forgotten  to  smile  ""^^«''en,  only- 


L.-^îÇ^- 


,':        CttAPTÊR  IX  i 

;WHieH  HECORDS  A  TRAGED^^*  •; 


\: 


lEMlMA  ANN!"saysMlle.  Minii.    Sheislyinir 
Lï^'  ""''^"^^"-y  afternoon  loungiug  atti! 
tude  upon  the  parler  sofa,  oceupied  in  hi 
usual  afternoon  fashion  in  àmftki,.  J  .• 
mtes,  and  teaching  her  \^t.X^  m  ^r^T^^T; 
«Jemima  Ann,areyouhappy?''    ;       .  "'^,'**^"«t  «^^p,  ^ 

«  v^*^  '"  ®*ys  Jemi"id  Ann.         "^ 

.J5^'Z'K.'?.?»rrJ!:T«!."p''""  »•■ 


i 


■-'» 


,Mt4ijL 


là*      -'^  -t' 
,^  .1**' 


.âé" 


^' 


WmCH   RECORDS  -A     TRAGEDY.         87 


in  their  boiler-shop,  foundry-sMor  ^whatever  it  is,  to- 
morrovv.  I  swear  mysèlf  sometiues  when  things  go 
wrong,  but  not  in  such  mild  fashion.  '  Lor  '  is  no  answer, 
Jemima  A'nn,  are— you— happy  !" 

"  Well— rdilly  "-^begins  Miss  Hopkins,  modeàtly,  but 
Mimi  waves  her  white  hand,  and  cuts  her  short. 

"Oh, if  it  requires  reflection,  sày  no  more,  ypu're  not 
Néither  am  I,  Jemima— I  never  was.  No,  never,"  says 
Mimi,  biting  her  cigarette  through  with  her  l^ttle  shàrp, 
white  teeth,  "not  even  when  I  was  first  fharrTed,  and  I 
suppose  most  girls  who  marrj|tfor  love  are  happy  Ihen— 
for  a  month  or  so,  at  least  !  Did  \  marry  for  love,  I 
^l^wonder— did  I  ever  care  for  him,  or  any  onfclse,  real'li 
—really,  in  my  whole  life'?" 

Mimi  is  evidently  rétrospective.  She  roHs  a  fresh 
cigarette  between  her  def^ngers,and'iooks  with  somber 
blue  eyes  at  the  graceful  capers  of  Mademoiselle  Snow- 
ball. 

"  I  lilce  Petite,  there— she  amuses  me  ;  but  sp  would 
the  gambolsof 'a  little  white  kitten.  She  is  pretty,  and  I 
like  to  dress  her  prettily,  tj^t  I  wodld  tie  ribbons^  round 
the  kitten's  neck,  and  trick  her  out,  just  the  same.  Is 
that  love  ?  If  she  died  I  would  be  sorry— I  expect  her  to 
be  a  comfort  and  companion  to  mè  by  and  by.  Iquarrel 
withmpst  people— I  hâve  no  friends,  an^  ï  am  lonely 
sometiriies,  Jçmima  Ann.  But— is  that  love?  And  her  " 
father^^ — " 

;      The  darkest,  most  vindictîve  look  Jemima  Ann  ha« 
ever  seen  there,  sweeps  like  a  cloud  over  the  blonde  face. 
f'I  hated  her  father,"  she  says  between  ber  teeth.t  «  \ 
haie  him  still.'V 

^Dp  teïl  !"  exclairas.shocfced  Jemima  Ann 
Mimi  latighs— her  transitions  ar«  like  ligl^ainir,  ^cr 
volatile  nature  flashes  to  and  fro,  as  a  comet.     "' 


'^'', 


^3 


ef\ 


llopkius'  1  ound-eyeff  simplicity  «muscs  b^  alwaym  /      ' 
dtj'I^^®'®**  horé,Jim,"-«he  «ys,  "yoer  aent  calif  ye^ 
^J«  '  K»in^p@^  dœw't  ^lAi    Wèit  trmild  jw>il  pp  gl 


'%f:: 


'•■? 


'^  i 


■«; 


ni^ 


«  poor^ri,igrisetleof  New  York,  born  in  pov«ty.  bred 

ber  fortune,  what  would  you  say  of  such  a  one.when  a- 

jj  gentleman,  young,  handsome  a/  one  of  the  ^;^of 

.l|our  uovels--tan,   dark-eyed,  finely  educatL  ^^'tl^ 

W  of  nnlhons,  falls  in  love  with  her  ;  runs  a;ay  from 

^e^and  fnends  for  he^;  mairies  her.     What'wouM 

on  7nh''  tl"'^''^'^''^  ^r^'^''  an4  happiist  creeéer 
th.T  '  n^P'l"?''  promptiy.  Jemima  À|in.  «  But  was 
theloveallanhisside?  Didn't  she  love  him  too  ?" 
able^J  ^^»7^Mimi  "that  is>hat  I  hâve  never  been 
ablefofandi^ut  I-don't-knoW.  She  di^ln't  act  as  i° 
she  did  ;  ,t  was  more  like  hâte  sometimes,  bat  she  never 
could  bear  him  to  look  at  any  bne  else.     àhe  drove  h'm 

Sun^Jr^  ^-^^-^  ' 

fr.^^  "f  S  lazily,  draws  h^r  skitris  up  a  little  to  display 
two  tnm  feet,  and  exeçut^e^  the  step  to  which  SnowbaH 

TadlTh  "^^""^'  '"'"^'^'^^  ^^P^^'  tliep.rfornrance  . 
^mil  siie  has  it  quite  correctly.  Then  she  flings  herself 
^in  on  the  lounge.  Jemima  Ann  looks  on  if  perpS- 
/ty-th.s  errat.cally  acting  and  talking  Mimi  has  been  her 
puzzle  from  the  fir^t-puzzles  he,  more  than  ever  to' 
day;  m  one  breath  talking  of  the  tragical  death  of  tl^ 
young  hu^band,  who  left  ail  for  her.  ^^d  with  the  wo  ds 

l  V  ^    ""'P^'^  ^"*  ^^  •^*'°>*°»»  Aan  is  upset 
•«««„!:    "Y'  Mimi,gaitig  back  to  tbc  surting   ,oint, 
^-^o  one  IS  ha^y.    Even  a«,pi^  a«  wrctchei    Look 
at  a  horse~b«t«,  loaded,  i««  eut-look  at  a  <^ 
wliat  melaachoiy  méditation  «Mte  mm  m  k»  liiTL- 

I  kmm  of  ;  é  I»C  ww  W—  ing  m 


^  *  lecture  «pjgfeg  cvthlf- 
--=      *^         '        '     -if  that  ii^ 


«.  J, 


IVHICH    RECORDS    A    ' TRAGEDY, 

l 


89 


the  correct  big  word— mine  is  ji'ermitted  to-t-etum  and 
*lmve  i^  choice  of  a  future  dwelling,  I  think  wc  will  be 
a  fat  r^ttle  white,  pdrker  and  bc  happy  î  Oh1  hère  is 
Lacy,  and  I  am  not  dressed.  Take  away  Snowball,  Je- 
mima,  like  a  good  girL  l'm  dife  at  a  dinner  to-day— 
Mr.  Lacy  gives  it-  at  the  hôtel,  and  hère  he  cornes  after 


mer* 


$he  sprihgs^  |p  her  feet  and  ruhs  up-stairs. 
" Tell  him  to Vait,  Jim,"  she  calls  ;  "  I  will  be  ready  in 
half  an  iiottr." 

Miss  Hopkins  dêlivers  the  message,  and  bears  Snow- 
^ball  to  Jhe  régions  below. 

Mr.  Lacy  takes  a  seat  at  the  parlor  wîftdow,  calling 
îamiliarly  to  Mlle.  Trillon,  up-stairs  to  tfttivate  artd  be 
quick  about  it,  for  the  rest  are  vvaiting  and  the  banquet 
is  ordered  for  five,  sharp.  '  ,     " 

It  is  late  when  Vane  Valentine  reaches  the  circus" 
He>as  dined  leisurely  and  well,  as  it  is  in  >is  nature  to 
do  Ml  things,  aAd  the  brass  band  is  banging  away  inside 
the  monster  tent  when  he  reaches  it,  and  the  first  of  thé 
performance  is  over.  Still  he  is  not  the  only  late  a<:rival 
—a  few  others  a|e  still  straggling  in,  and  one  man  leans 
with  his  back  ^ainst  a  dead  wall,  his  hands  in  his  coat 
pockets,  waitinl  at  his  ease  for  his  turn.  Something 
familial  in  the  ibôk  of  this  man,  even  in  the  dim  light, 
arrests  Vane  Valentine's  attention  ;  he  looks  again,  looks 
still  again,  ^omes  forward,  with  a  sudden  lifting  of  his 
dark  face,  and  lays  his  hand  on  the  manVshoulder. 

"Farrar  !"  he  exclaims..    "My  dear 'feildtor,  is  it  yoii 
or  yaur  wraith  f"  ^ 

J^c  man  looks  up,  regards  the  speaker  a  niu.menr, 
aftèr  «  cool  fashion,  and  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  How>  are  you.  Valentine  ?   Yes.  it  is  L    Ymi  wnit^ 


Ûc^^ 


.^' 


.bave  tlK>ugfit  it,  wouïd  you  ?    But  the  worjd  is  not  suçh 
\o%  is  not  abs^utely  pt|t  of  the  universa" 


«ijiJLÏ.'l'fiV'^,' 


4: 


»    '     'î 


9P. 


"-^..^ 


"^^^^tWW^ 


ivkicji  jÎEœRhs 


A   thagedy,. 


"Well,  rm  uncommonly  glad-»to  see  you,  old  boy" 
says  Vane  Valentine,  and  really  looks  it.  "  Hâve  you 
cqme  ail  tl^e  wày  from  the  Azores  to  go  to  the  circus  ?" 
'•  What  would  you  say  if  I  should  say  yes?'% 
"Regret  to  find  you  falling  Into  youj^'  second  child- 
Iiood  at  five-and-twenty,  butlio  end  glad  to  see  you  again. 
ail  the  same."  ^1  &  ^  » 

,--.  -^'^  I  should  think,  after  a  vety  fe#  weeks  of  this  place 
you  might  be  no  end  glad  to  -see-almost  any  one,"  says 
Mr.  Farrar.     "Fayal    may  be  dull,  but  at  least  it  has 

beauty  to  recommend  it.     But  this  beast  of  à  town " 

"  It  is  a  beastly  p^ace,"  assents  Vane  ValeîiUne,  "  buu 
•I  am  not  staying  in  the  town  itself.  We  live  in  the 
suburbs,  my  aunt  and  I— not  a  bad  spot  in  the  month  df 
September.  We  go  to  Philadelphia  next  week.-  Macl^m 
Valentine  has  a  house  there  that  she  ixkcs  rather,  and 
where  she  stays  until  she  goes  south  for  the  winter  " 
"  She  is  well,  I  trust  ?;;.•     \ 

"  She  is  always  well.     She  is  a  wonderful  oM  ^dy  in 
that  way— no  headaches  or  hystéries,  or  feminintî^  non- 
sense  of  any  kind  about  her.     But  are  you  really  goinir" 
to   the    circus,   you    know?"   inquires -«ib.   Valentine 
smiling.  ' 

"  Most  undoubtedly.  Behold  the  open  8esa|^,^how- 
ing  his  ticket.  «And  ybu-it  is  aboiit  tfie  last  llâcc 
of  ail  places  I  should  expect  to  fînd  the  fasddious  Vane 
Valentine.^     >  y 

.   •   Vane  Valentine  shrugs  his  shoulders,  but  looks  rather 
ashanied  of  himself,  too. 

"  I»  dort't. corne  to  see  the  thing.  doii't  you  know  ;  I 
com«  on— business.  I  want  particularly  to  see  one  of 
the  performers."  *  » 

"Ah  !"  remarks,  in  Aèep  bass,  Mr.  Farrar. 
.«  Pshaw  !  my  dear  fell^,  nothing  èf  th«  sort.    You 
tnijjtht  know. me  better.     I  haye  n^v<>r  tft 


c 


c 


tjt»  nn  ooc  of 


theSe  woïnên  yet' 
>  "Austère  youug  aristocrat,  I  ask  pardoii  I    If  we  a» 


j^ 


^  s 


i 


Mi^'lf 


-      ï 


•4j>_ 


'"<V541 


,  """^F)"  ^'«^^-^tSt  A'^  V*'-»  " 


\ 


'ICH    R^CORÏhS^    À-TRAGEDY. 


91 


going  to  see  ^nything  of  it  at  aïî,  we  had  better  not 
linger  longer  hère,  for  the  raree-shovv  15  half  over  by 
this  time." 

"  Where  are  you  stopping  ?"  young  Valentine  asks,  îvs 
they  turn  to  go  in. 

"  They  put  me  up  at  the  WaàhlngtQa— not  a  bad  sort 
of  hostelry;  Hâve  I  ever  spoken  to  you  of  niy  friend, 
Dr.  Macdonald,  of  Isle  Perdrix?  I  am  on  my  way  to 
give  him  a  week  or  two  of  my  délectable  çociety." 

"  Somewhere  in  Canada,  among  the  French,  isn't  it  ? 
Yes,  I  remember.     Stay  over  to-morrow,  though,  wçn'tv 
you  ^knd  corne  and  dine  with  me  ?     I  haven't  seen  a  soûl 
to  speak  to  for  three  weeks  !     A  civilized  face  is  a  god- 
send  hçre  among  t^hc  sooty  aborigines  of  Clangville." 

'*  You  ar<r  a  supercilious  lot,  upon  ihy  word,  Valen- 
V  tine,",  observes  Mr.  Farrar.  "  You  always  were.  Hère 
we  are  at  last,  in  the  thiclc  of  the  tumblers  and  merry-go- 
rbunds.  I  feél*like  a  boy  again.  I  hâve  not  been  mside 
a  circus  tent  for  fifteeu  years.  They  wjere  thè.joy  of  my 
existence /Af»."  ^ 

They  take  their  sMts,  anèbecome  for  the  space  of  five 
seconds  the  focus  of  Weral  hundi-ed  pairs  of  examining 
eyel.     Madame  Olyrlpe  is  cavorting  round  thé  ring  o^ 
fouR^bare-backed  chargers  at  once,  «' hi-ing,"  leàping, 
jumping  through  lightel  fioops,' 'startling  the  nervôùs   " 
Systems  of  everybody,  and  the  sévirai  hund^-e^  eyés  rè? 
turn  to  the  «awdust  circle.    The  two  new-comers  Igok  * 
sufficiently  unlike  the  generality  of  the  crdwd  atound 
them,  to  attract  cotisidetabre  attention,  -  if  it.could  bé    . 
spared  from  the  perforraai^t  ,   ■       ^^  * 

Vane  Valentine,  dVessed  to  perfecHon,  withjust  a    . 
suspicion' of  dandyism,  very  erect,  very  stiff,  and  con-  , 
temptuous  of.nïanner,  glancing,  with  a  sneer  hetakes  uii» 
trotible  to  conceal.  atthe  simplg^sùuljjironnH  him/air 
agapeat  tfiè  aœazfi         -  '^"' 

Mr.  Farrar,  tall,  br 
latent  sUeiigtli,>tlia( 


ï^     \\ 


-l'f     Kg 


* 


igs  pf  ;the  magstficent  Olympe. 
ioulderéà7  with  a  look,  of  great 
Ignace  of  its  own  to  his  wèll- . 

A 


PMHM 

MMM 

mmmm 

"■^ 

■  f-î 

''i*^ 

.?*. 

'^ 

3  oa 

'' 

■.il 


*■ 


r- 


85*^ 


kmi  figure,  a  s.lky  brotvn-black  beard  and  méustache, 
haïr  close-cropped  and  stiU  durker,  straight  heavy  eye- 
Vows,  and^a  pair  of  brilliant  brown  eyes  He  is  a  nfan 
of  commandpg  présence,  looking  far  more  thofoughbred 
than  his  compan.on,  distinctiy  a  handsomé  man-a  mao 
.^        ,       at  «^onimost  women  look  t  wice,  and  look  with  interest. 

^^--^^^\^      ''?^^'  ^''  ^'""^"  beai-d.  as  he  watdhes 
^->-vtûe  astpnishing  évolutions  of  Olympe. 

rnn"i'  V'^'"^"  ^^  '*^''  "^^y''"  want'to  take  lessoris  in 
,  rough-nding  you  could.  hardly  hâve  a  more  accomplished 

teacher.    A  handsomé  animal  toô  " 

hors?r^''^r'  ""^^^  ^^°^  Valentine,  «the  woman  or  the 

.K  'k^°^^u    "°7  ^""^^  '^^  ^*"  ^^''self  ?    Ah,  Olympe 

tl^Daughter  of  the  Désert.  WAich  désert  ?-this  is  vague 

v«*-»w_that^wasaleap-what  superb  muscles  the  créa- 

^iist  haVe.    Now  she  has  gone.    What  hâve  we 

iim  «^a\^'"'k''"  ?^  tight-rope."  reads  ^ane  Valen- 
ST  ^,^^^«"^«';^"?  ^f  ts  on  the  wire-sixt>^  feet  iu  the 
air!    Oh,  nere  she  is  !  '  , 

He  looks  up  with  vivid  interest,  and  levels.his  glass. 

Farabove,ashiningsmallfigureis«een,allwhite^uze  ' 
spangles,  gUded  hair.  balancing  pôle.  '  A|  shout  San! 
plause  greets  her.  Mimi  ha3  become  a  favUe  with  the 
circus-going  public,  in  the  last  two  or  threé  days.  Vane 
Valentme  looks  long  and  intently-his  glass  is  powerful. 
a^  brings  out  every  feature  distinctiy.  He  lowers  it  at 
Jast,  and  draws  a  deep  breath. 

"Take  a  look,'*  he  says  to  his  companion,  "and  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  her." 

Btthl7^rM'''^r\  ".«•  *^^'^^«ks  long  and  steadily 
atjhç  f^ir  Mimi,  balancing  far  up  m  that  dizzy  Une-- 
going  through  a  performance  that  makes  more  than  one 
nervous  head  swlm  >-'--'     .      ,,      .       -  «  uuo 


tQjgokat^^JIeiaso  drops  tlte^lasT" 


after  that  prolonged  stare,  in  silence. 

«Dp  yau  think  hc*  pretty?"  Valentine  aska 

Fi   , 

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WffICJI   RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 


93 


"  Ttiferç  cap%e  no  two  opinions  about  that,  I  should 
think.     She  is  exceedingly  pretty."    , 

Vane  Valentine  shrugs  iiis  shoulders. 

"  Who  knows  ?  Thqse  people  owe  so  much  to  paint 
and  powder,  and  padding  and  wigs,  and  so  on.  In  this 
case,  too,  distance  lends  «HÉntment  to  the  view.  I 
dare  say  nearer,  with  her  flrce  washed,  and  half  thèse 
blonde  tresses  on  her  dressing-table,  we  should  find  our 
fair  one  a  blo^sy  beauty,  with  a  greasy  skin  and  a  pasty 
complexion.  She  does  her  tight-rope  business  well, 
though.     By  Jove,  it  looks  dangerous  !" 

"  It  M  dangerous,"  the  other  answers,  "and^ — I  may  bc 
mistaken — but  there  is  something  the  matter.  She 
nearly  lost  her  balance  a  moment  ago.  Good  !  good  I 
there  !  ahe  nearly  lost  it  agai^  !"  ) 

The  words  hâve  scarcely  ^assed  his  lij>s  when  a 
hoarse,  terrible  cry  arises  simultaneously  from  a  hundred 
throats.  There  is  a  sudden  upheaval  of  the  whole  multi- 
tude to  their  feet.  Over  ail,  piercing,  frightful,  never  to 
be  forgotten,  a  woman's  shriek  rings — then  a  silence,  {i 
pause  so  avvful  that  every  heart  stands  still.  Th^n — a 
dull,  dreadful,  sickening  thud,  something  white  and  glit*. . 
tering  has  whirled  likè  a  leaf  through  the  air,  and  lites 
now,  crushed,  bleeding,  broken,  senseless — a  tumbled 
heap  of  gauze,  and  ribbons,  and  tinsel,  ând  shining  hair, 
and  shattered  flesh  and  blbod.  - 

il  And  now  there  rises  a  chorus  of  screams,  a  stampede 
cnF  feet,  conf ij^sion,  uproar,  chaos.  Aboyé  it  sounds  the 
voice  of  the  manager,  imploring  them  to  be  orderly,  to 
be  silènt,  to  disperse.  Mlle.  Mimi  is  seriously  hurt.  Her 
only  chance  is  for  the  audience  to  go,  and  leave  her  to 
tlje  care  of  her  friends.  tiers,  in  ariy  case,  was  to  hâve 
been  the  close  of  the  performance.  / 

Thbjaiudience  are  sorry  and  horrified^  and  obéyr^but 


"^slowly,  and  with  much  talk  and  confusioti.  They  pour 
eut  into  the'  bright,  chilly  aight,  and  that  crushed  and 
bleeding  heap  is  lifted  somehow,  and  laid  on  a  stretcher, 


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94         l^HICH   RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.^ 

and  the  company  crowd  around.  Some  one  has  already 
gone  for  a  doctor,when  Vane  Valentyiey  who,  with  Mr. 
Farrar,  hi^s  already  pushed  his  way  into  their  midst. 
speaks  : 

"This  gentleman,  although  not  a  practicing  physi- 
cian,  has  studied  medicine,  and  is  skillful.  Farrar,  look 
at  the  poor  créature,  and  see  if  anything  can  be  done." 

Mr.  Farrar  is  already  bending  over  her,  and  Vane 
Valentine,  who  has  a  horror  of  the  sight  of  blood  and 
wounds,  tiirns  away,  feeling  quite  sick  an'd  giddy.  But  l' 
it  is  his  stomaoh  that  i/tender,  not  his  heart.  In  this 
moment  his  first  thought  is,  "If  she  is  dead,  what  a  lot  of 
trouble,  and  what  a  pot  of  money  it  will  save,  to  be 


sure 


There  is  profound  silence  ;  #ven  Olympe  looks  pale 
and  panic-stricken  in  this  first  moment,  in  the  face  of 
this  direful  tragedy.  Mr.  Farrar  is  quite  pale  with  the 
pity  of  if,  when  he  looks  up  at  last.  A  moment  ago,  so 
fair,  so  full  of  life  and  youth  ;  now,  this  mangîed,  dully 
'"o^ning  mass!  For  ;/  moans  feebly  at  times,  and  the 
Sound  thrills  through  every  heart. 

"She  is  insensible,  in  spite  of  that,"  he  says;  "shç  is 
terribly,  frightfuUy  injured.  It  is  utterly  impossible  for 
her  to  recover.  With  ail  thèse  compound  fractures,  t&ere 
is  concussion  of  the  brain.  She  will  probably  never  re- 
cover consciousness,  even  for  a  moment.    She  will  die." 

He  pranounces  the  dread  fiât,  pale  and  grave.  He 
stands  with  folded  arms,  and  looks  down  at  the  motion- 
less  form  on  the  stretcher.  -  Olympe— a  judge  of  a  fine 
man— glances  at  him,  èven  in  this.tragic  moment,  with  an 
approving  eye.  Time  and  opportunityciavoring,  she 
would  like  to  culti  vate  Monsieur  le  J/<^///««'x  acquaintance 
she  thinks. 

"w.^".  f^*^  ^^  moved  ?"  the  manager  asks.    "  Poor  Ht- 


tic  MttMif  t^Kn-  iittte  yofftt  1^  sornr  for  t^^^^^^ 
knowrUlÇr  for  years,  and  in  spite  of  her  little  falMngs,  I 
iked/ier.    Poor  little  soûl  î"  . 


1^  -J^''- 


WffICH    RECOUDS    A     TRAGEDY. 


95 


-■^ 


The  manager  is  a  personage  of  very  few  words.  He 
rarely  commits  himself  to  a  speech  as  long  as  this.  He 
looks  sorry  as  he  says  it.  '-"■ 

"  Poor  little  Mimi  !"  h^  repeats  ;  "  poor  little  woman  ! 
poor  little  soûl  !"  . 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?"  ^Mr.  Farrar  asks.  "  Yes,  shé 
can  be  removed— she  feels  nothing  ;  and  it  l?ad  better  be 
done  at  once.  I  will  go  with  you  until  the  doctor  cornes, 
but  neither  of  us  will  bfe  of  any  use.  I  will  remain  if 
there  is  anyth;ng  that  can  be  done,"  he  says  to  the  man- 
ager, "as  long  as  you  like."  * 

"  Thank  you  !  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor.  You  see,  I 
hâve  known  her  so  long  ;  and,  poor  little  thing,  hers 
might  hâve  been  such  a  différent  fate  if  she  -had  chose. 
It  has  been  a  strange  life  and  death.  Poor,  poor  little 
Mimi!" 

"  How  long  do  you  give  her  to  hold  out,  you  know  ?" 
Vane  Valentine  asks  his  friend,  in  a  subdued  tone,  as  he 
too  turns  to  foUow.       . 

Something  in  his  voice,  a  latent  eagerness,  a  sort  of  i 
hope,  makes  Farrar  look  at  him  suddenly.     The  brown 
eyes  are  keen  and  quick  to  catch  and  read. 

••  She  will  hardly  live— hold  out,  '%ï  you  call  it— until 
morning,"  he  answers,  coldly.     "  Why  ?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  I  too  wduld  like  to  wait  for— 
the  end.     It  is  ail  very  sudden  and  shocking." 

Mr.  Farrar  says  nothing.  The  sympathy  sounds  forced 
and  unmeant. 

Vane  Valentine  is  neither  sorry  nor  shocked  ;  he 
thinks,  indeed,  it  is  a  very  fit  and  natural  ending  for  such 
a  life,  altogether  to  hâve  been  expected.  And  what-an 
easy  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  day  !  No  fear  of 
exposure  or  blackmail  tiow. 

"  Will  she  ever  speak  again  ?"  he  asks,  thînkîng  hia 


thoughts,  as  Ihéy  sTowly  folldw  tKë^d  cortc^e  tfia| 
bears  poor  Mirai  home. 

iiftyt»  I  not  said  she  would  not  ?    She  will  aever  ro*- 


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96 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY, 


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cover  consciousnegs.     She  wiH  He  moaniiïg  like  tliat  for 
a  little,  and  then  life  will  go  out." 

-  There  is  silence.  It  has  chanced  to  Mr.  Farrarto  see 
a  good  deal  of  death  ànd  the  darker  sides  of  life,  but  ^ 
habit  has  net  hardened  him.  There  is  that  in  his  face 
which  tells  Vane  Valéntine  he  is  in  no  mood  to  answer 
idle  questions.  ,Sb  he  discreetly  hôlds  his  longue,  and  . 
foUows  through  the  starry  darkness  to  Mi:s.  Hopkins' 
home. 

Jemimai  Ann  snd  Aunt  Samantha  are  waiting  up  as 
usual,  sewiiîg  in  silence,  a  kérosène  lamp  between  them. 

Snow bail  has  not  been  taken  to  the  circuQ  this  even- 
ing,  but  as  she  has  a  profound  disbelief,  itl  her  small 
way,  of  the  early-to-bed  System,  she  is  still  up,  singing 
gleefully,  and  playing  with  a  couple  of  kittens  in  front*  *' 
of  the  stove.  Her  song;  sung  at  the  full  pitch  of  her 
^  powerful  little  lungs,  is  her  fa^-ite  ballad  of  the  "Ten 
Little  Injun  Boys."  ■<>WÊÊ" 

The  door-bell  is  rung  by  t^^essenger,  who  runs  on 
ahead  ;  the  direful  news  isWoken,  and  in  a  moment  ail 
is  confusion.  '^  ^ 

I^rs.  Hopkins  is^^cid  of  temper,  but  pitiful  of  heart. 
A  great  remorse  and  compassion  seizes  her.  She  has 
..$pent  the  evening  in  wordy  abuse  of  her  boarder — her 
smoking,  her  drinking,  her  flirting,  her  generally  shame- 
ful  goings  on  ;  and  novv — a  bleeding  and  mangled  créa- 
ture is  borne  in  to  die  in  her  hou  se. 

"  I  wouldn't  a  said  a  word  if  l'd  a  thouglit,"  she  sajrs, 
crying,  to  Jemima  Ann.  "  I  kiridcr  feel  as  if  she'd  oughter 
baunt  me  for  àll  the  things  l've  up  and  said  of  her. 
Poor  little  creetur  !  she  was  only  young  and  flig^ty,  and 
knowed  no  better,  likely,  when  ail  is  said  and'done." 

Jemima  is  crying  too,  vety  sincère  teàrs.  She  has 
learnffl  to  like.  has  ajways  hkedv.ttfg  light,  /wwf/a»/. 


■dcvil-may-carc  little  trapezist.  But  then  Jemima  Ann 
would  hâve  cried  for  any  one  in  pain  or  trouble  as  freely 
as  she  weeps  over  her  heroines  ia  weckly  installmeati*. 


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WHICH   RECORDS    A    TRAGEDY.         97 

She  prépares  the  bed,  and  ^ees  Mimi  laid  upon  it,  still 
faintly  raoaning,  and  assists  in  removing  as  much  as  can 
be  removed  of  the  flimsy,  tinseled  drapery.  The  beau|:i- 
ful  fair  hair,  ail  clotted  and  sticky  with  blood,  is  gathered 
up  in  a  great  knot.<.  The  face  seeras  the  only  part  ^of  her 
uninjured— it  is  drawn  into  a  strange,  drëadful  expi'es- 
sion  of  f  ear  and  pairi — the  look  that  f  roze  upon  it  in  the 
instant  of  her  fall.  The  features  are  not  marred,  but  the 
face  *s  ghastly — ^the  blue  eyes  seem  half  open,  à  little 
str6am  of  blood  and  foam  trickles  from  the  lips;  Jf emima 
"Anh  wipes  it,  and  her  own  tears,  away,  as  she  stands 
looking  down. 

Down  in  the  parlor  is  Mr.  Lacy,  like  à  man  dis-, 
traught,  lie  bas  been  in  love  wi!!!i  Mimi,  off  and  on, 
since  he  saw  her  fi^st  ;  he  bas  ^ollowed  her  about  f rora  = 
place'*to.  place  like  her  shadow  ;  he  bas  oflferèd  her  mar- 
riage  again  and  again — and  he  is  rich.  That  shé  bas  not 
marribd  him  bas  surprised  everybody  ;  but  Mlle.  Trillon 
has  always  been  erratic,  bas  liked  her  freedom  and  her 
wandering  «life,  has  persistently  laughed  at  him,  and 
taken  bis  -présents  with  two  greedy  little  bands,  and 
eaten  bisxlinners,  and  drank  bis  Wines,  and  smoked  bis 
cigarettes,  and  driven  behind  bis  bigh-steppers,  and  said 
No.      , 

"  l've  had  enougb  of  marriage,  Lacy,"  she  bas  said,  in 
her  reckless  fashion  ;  "  it's  no  end  of  a  bumbug.  I 
Woiildn't  marry  the  jprince  of  Wales  if  be  came  over  ai^d 
asked  me."  Il^^ 

"Which  it  would  be  bigamy  if  you  did,"  says  Mr. 
Lacy  ;  "  but  you  might  marry  me,  Mimi — fife  nôt  got  a 
Princess  Alexandra  at  home.  You  could  Içave  off  the 
flying  trapèze,  and  bave  a  good  time  as  Mrs.  Augustus 
Lacy."  r 

"I  bave  a  better  time  as  Mlle.  Mimi  Trilion.  Tbanka^ 


wld  fcllow,  verymuch,  but  not  any  t"  làugfis  Mimi. 

And  she  has  adhered  to  it    No  later  ^ban  this  veiy 
^ï*  ^^^  dinner,  a-flHsU  with  champagnje  and  turkey. 


"f    .^'^ 


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.  0S         WHICH   RECORDS   A    TRAGÈDY.  \ 

Mr.  Lacy  has  renewed  his  honorable  proposais,  and  for 
aie  twenty-fifth  titne  been  refuscd.  Minil^  too,  is  elato 
with  the  fizzing  beverage,  which  she  is  bût  too  fond  of, 
and  it  is  this  tfaought  that  adds  the  sting  of  poignant 
self-reproach  to  Mr.  Lacy's  grief.  She  had  taken  too 
much  wiae,  she  was  in  no  condition  to  mount  that  fatal 
wire  when  she  left  his  hôtel,  and  he  should  hâve  told  the 
manager  so.    But  how  could  he  tell  ?— and  she  would 

never  hâve  forgiven  him  if  he  had,  and  now He 

lays  his  head  on  the  table,  and  cries,  in  the  deepest 
dépths  of  misOy,  and  remorse,  and  despâir.  So  Mr. 
Farrar  find^  him  later,  and  stands  looking  at  him,  with 
that  grave,  thoughtful  face  of  his,  in  silent  wonder. 

"  I  was  so  fond  of  her,"  the  poor  young  man  says, 
wiping  his  eyes  ;  "  I  was  awfully  fond  of  her  always.  I 
would  hâve  married  her  if  she'd  hâve  had  me.  But  she 
wouldn't  And  now  to  think  of  her  lying  up  there,  ail 
ciu^hed  and  disfigured.  It's  too  horrid.  And  it's  dused 
hard  on  »wr,  by  George  !  Ain't  there  no  hope,  doctor  ? 
You^tfn?  the  doctor,.ain't  you ?" 

"I^  not  a  doctor,"  Mr.  Farrar  answers,  "but  the 
doctor  is  with  her.    No — there  is  no  hope." 

He^does  not  look  contemptuous  by  thèse  womanish 
tears,^  and  this  foolish  little  speech.  A  sort  of  compasv 
sion  is  in  the  glance  that  rests  so  gravely  on  poor  loveA 
striçken,  grief-stricken  Mr.  Lacy. 

"  How — how  long  will  she-^ — " 

Mr.  Lacy  applies  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  aad 
walks  away  abr^tly  to  one  of  the  Windows. 
,   "She  may  last  the  night  out     She  will  not  know  you 
or  àny  one—she  is  past  ail  that    Shie  will  n^er  speak 
again." 

He  pauses.  „  •     ' 

A  little  child  cornes  in,  a  fairy  in  a  blue  dress  the 
lor  jif  its^egres,  with  flnflFy,  flav^^n  h^h,  falling  to  itn 
mmist,  and  a  lovely  rosebud  face.  • 

"Seben  'ittle  Injuns  nebbaheard  ob  hebben,"  sings 


^^i   ï!A«.!lti.4cS*h4(i-..^?l(..«li'èi 


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WBICm   kECORDS   À    TRAGEDY. 


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the  faiiy,  looking  about  her  with  wide  opcn,  fearless 
eyes.  .,        ï> 

She  espies  Mr.  Lacy,  and'peers  up  àt  him  curiously. 
"  What  you  cryin'  for,  Lacy  ?"  she  asks.    "  Want  your 
suppér?"  ' 

Mr.  Lacy  is  too  far  gone  to  reply. 

"Want  go  to  bled?"  persists  inquisitive  Snowball,  the 
two  sole  wants  skt  is  ever  conscious  of  uppermost  in  her 
mind. 

"Oh!  Snowball,  Snowball  !"  says  poor  Mr.'  Lacy. 
"  Little  Snowball,  if  you  only  knew  !" 

"Where  MimyAnn?"  Snowball  demands,  unmoved 
by  this  appstrophe.     "'Noball  wants  her  Mimy  Ann.  **»^ 
Want  go  to  bed." 

"  It  is  fur  child,"  Mr.  Lacy  explainsjto  the  silent  Far- 
rar.  "  She  was  a  wîdow,  you  know.  t  haven't  an  idea 
what  will  becorae  of  thi^  little  mite  qiow.  And^  she  is 
very  like  her.    It's  dused  hard,  by  Georte  !" 

He  is  overcome  again.  1 

Mr.  Farrar  holds  out  his  hand  to  th^  child 

"  Corne  hère,  little  Snowball,"  he  saj-s. 

She  looks  at  him  after  her  fashion  fôr  ft  moment,  then 
still  quite  fearlessly  goes  over,  climbs  upon  his  knee,  and 
kisses  his  bearded  lips.  ,  - 

"You  is  a  pritty  man,"  she  says.  «'Noban  likes 
pntty  men.     l^oe&ym  know  wliere  is  my  Mimy  Ann?" 

"She  will  be  hère  prèsently.    She  is  busy  up-stairs." 

He  puts  the  flaxen  hair  back  from  the  bâby  face,  and 
gazes  long  and  eamestly. 

«  Yes,  ywi  are  like  her,"  he  says,  "you  are  very  like 
her,  my  poor  little  Snowball."  * 

Snowball  is  sle^py,  and  says  as  much  ;  she  cuddïéi 
gloser,  lays  her  feit  baby  faead  confidingly  against  his 
breast,  closes  the  Mue  eyes.  and  instantly  drnp« 


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^âttffEdldshferi  lifting  «1^  the  long  pretty  hain 
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îoo        V^HJCH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.^ 

It  is  a,  night  nevcr  to  be  forgotten  in  the  Hôtel  Hop- 
kins.  No  ,one  goes  to  bed.  Even  the  six-and-twenty 
hands  stray  afield  unti}-  abnormal  hours,  and  meander 
in  and  out,  unrebuked. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  retires,  it  is  true,  to  freshen  herseljf  for 
the  labors  o}  the  dawning  new  day,  which  promises  to  be 
one  of  the  busiest  of  her  busy  life.  Jemima  Ann  retires 
not.  She  is  up-stairs,  and  down-stairs,  and  on  her  feet  the 
weary  nigKt*  through^r  Mr.  Lacy  eannot  tear  hifnself 
away.  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  sends  a  message  to  the  cot- 
tage, and  he,  too,  lingers  to  see  how  the  poor  créature 
fares,  and  wins  golden  opinions  from  hero-worshiping 
Miss  Hopkins.  So  much  goodness  of  iieart,  so  much 
condescension  in  so  great  a  personage,  she  wouldn't  a 
thought  it,  railly.  She  falls  partly  in  love  with  him  in- 
deed^  in  the  brief  intervais  she  has  for  that  soft  émotion, 
during  her  rapid  skirmishing  up  and  down  stairs — would 
do  so  vvholly  but  that  her  admiration  is  about  equally 
divided  between  him  and  his  friend  Mr.  Farrar. 

This  latter  gentleman  remains  without  oflfering  any 
particular  reasons,  but  in  a  gene/al  way,  in  case  he  can 
be  of  any  further  assistance.  •     .^ 

For  Mimi,  she  lies  prone,  not  ppening  her  ^es,  not 
stirring,  only  still  moaning  feebly  at  .intervais.  Up  in 
her  cot,  in  Jemima's  room,  little  Snowball  ileeps,  her 
pretty  cheeks  flushed,  her  pretty  hair  tossiSMil»  and,  dieams... 
not  that  the  fair  frail  ^oung  mother  is  drifting  out  further 
and  further  f rbm  this  world,  with  each  of  those  dark,  sad, 
carly  hours.  *" 

The  night-light  burns  low,  the  sick-room  is  very  still, 
the  Street  outside  is  dead  quiet  ;  Jemima  Ann  sits  on  one 
Bide  of  the  bed,  her  numberless  errands  over  for  the 
présent,  dozing  in  the  stillness,  spent  with  fatigue;  Mr. 
Farrar  paces  the  corridor  without,  coming  to  the  blid  at 


lSÏ^Vàîs^o"^ir^¥TïïdkMSg"pnsC^ûa^sëeTrTlfë^" 
lingers.    Mr.  La^y  slumbers  in  a  chair  in  the  parlor,  and 
Mr.  Valentine  hà3 'Stretched  his  slender  limbs  oo  tbe 


ife-: 


x* 


h: , 


'Jff/CIf   RECORDS    A     TRAGEDIT.       joi 


sofa,  wliere  poor  Mimi  was  wont  in  after-dinner  mood  to 
recline,  and  smôke,  and  chaff  Jemima.  The  belated  six- 
and-twenty  hâve  clambered  up  to  their  cots  at  Igist  ;  only 
the  black  beefles,  the  mice,  and  Mr.  Paul  fî'arrar  are 
thoroughly  awake  in  the  whole  crowded  household. 

Four  strikes  with  a  metallic  clang  from  the  big 
wQoden  clock  in  the  hall,  and  is  taken  up  by  a  time- 
piece  of  feebler  tone,  far  4own  in  the  undergroimd 
kitchen.  Hç  pauses  in  his  restless  walk,  enters  th&  sicK=- 
room,  glances  at  the  quiet  figure  od  the  bed,  walks  to 
one  of  the  Windows,  draws  the  curtaia  and  looks  out. 
The  moon  bas  set,  the  morning  is  very  dark,  a  wild  wind 
shudders  down  the  deserted  street  with  a  whistling,s(kmd, 
inexpressibly  dreary. 

He  remembers  suddenly  itfs  the  first  of  November, 
the  eve  of  AU  Soûls'  Day  ;  the  moaniag  of  the  sweeping 
blast  sounds  to  him  like  the  wordless  cry  of  son^e  of 
thèse  disembodied  soûls,  wanderîng  up^^^nd  down  for* 
lornly,  the  places  that  knew  them  once.  -  Another  soûl 
will  go  to  join  that  "silent  majority"  before  the  new 
day  dawns.  The  thought  makes  hin^j^op  tlie  curtain, 
and  sends  him  back  to  the  bedside.   ^1^-^ 

The  change  has  corne.    A  gray  sha%ow,  not  there  a 
moment  «ince,  Hq^  on  the  white  face,  a  clammy  dew  wets 
it,  the  fiuttering  of  the  heart  can  hardly  bé  detected  now, 
.4i&hei)Lends,M§jear  to  listen. 

Jemima  Ann,  waking  frpm  some  uncomfortabledream, 
starts  up. 

He  lifts  one  waming  hand,  and  àcîu  |;)ends  his  car 
downward,  his  fingers  on  the  flickering  puise.    

"  Oh  !  what  is  it?"  Jemima  says,  in  a  terrified  wto 
per  ;  "  is  she  worse  ?" 

"  Hush— she  is  dying.  No  !"  he  cries  out  "  She  it 
dead  !" 


T^e"^^^S"^'''H3den"^m^ïonTarin"Ëri^ft""^e 
drops  the  wrist  and  stands  quite  white,  looking  down 
upon  iho  marblç  face.    A  shudder  has  passed  through 


? 


#1 


4' 


■  -v4 


m. 


loa        WHICH    RECORDS   A    TRAGEDY. 

the  shattered  limbs,  through  the  crushed,  frail,  pretty 
Imle  body  ;  then,  with  a  faint,  flutterin^  sigh,  she  is 
gone.  ' 

-  "  Dead  !"  says  Jemima  Ann. 
She  drops  on  her  knees  with  a  sobbing  cry,  and  looks 
piteously  at  the  rigid  face.  '^ 

"Oh,  déar !  oh,  dcar !  oh,  dear !"  she  sobs,  under  her 
breath  ;  "dead!  and  only  this  aftemoon,  only  this  verjr 
aftemooD,  she  lay  on  the  sofa  down-stairs  talkin'  to  me 
and  laughin',  so  full  of  life,  and  health,  and  strength,  and' 
everything  ;  so  pretty,  so  pretty,  so  young  !     Oh,  dear  \ 
ob,  déar  !  a^nd  now  she  is  dead— and  such  a  death  !    She 
was  talkin'  of  years  ago,  and  of  her  husband— poor,  poor 
thing!"  says  Jemima  Ann,  rocking  ta  aad  fro,  through 
her  raining  tears,  "tellin'  me  how  handsome  he  was,  and 
how  he  loved  her,  and  how  he  run  away  with  her  from 
his  Jome,  and  riches,  and  ail.    Apd  now,  and  now,  she 
is  there— and  dead— and  nevjpr,  never,  never,  will  I  hear 
ber  pretty  voice  again  !"  ^ 

Mr.  Farrar  lifts  his  éyes  ifom  the  dead  woman,  and 
looks  across  at  the  homely,  tear-wet,  honest  countenance 
of  Mrs.  Hopkins'  nièce,  and  tïiints  that  beauty  is  not  the 
OjDly  thing  that  makes  a  woman's  faice  lovely. 

"  Vou  are  a  good  girl,"  he  says.  «  Yoù  are  sorry  for 
this  poor  créature.  You  do  weli;  Yours  will  be  the 
only  tears  shed  over  her— poor  unfortunate  Utile  soûl  !!* 
"Did  you  know  her,  sir?"  asks  Jemima. 
,  "  I  know  of  her.  Hers  has  been  a  pathetic  life  and 
death— thé  saddest  that  can  be  conceived.  Poor  pr«tty 
little  Mimi  I  And  shp  talked  to  you  qf  her  early  life— 
and  her  husband  ?    What  of  bim  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  dead— drounded— so  she  said.  But  I  guess 
h«  treated  her  bad— at  least  I  think  it  was  that,  I  ain't 
sure.  Mr.  Lacj-  ra&nted  to  marry  her,  but  she  wouldn't 
Ah  !j)oor  little  déir.    She'd  hada  dos*»  alr«./iY  y  rm*k An 


'Whai's  to  be  done  next,  sir?" 
V    There  is.  so.  much  to  be  donc  ncxt,  it  scems,  that  Ja^ 


'iÎÀJ£iàin. 


■■^.■arsri 


'iC^^^À 


l^îê§:' 


k^*; 


'.V*     -X  fit.' 


'W«^(' 


WHICH    RECORDS  ^     TRAG. 


Ehi^, 


103 


mhna  Ann  is  forced  to  call  up  her  aunt.  Monsieurt 
La<^and  Valentine,  aroused  from  their  matutinal  nap, 
are  informed,  and  start  up  to  hear  the  details.^^ 

"  Gone,  is  she  ?"  says  ^Mr.  Lacy,  the  first  sharp  edge 
of  his  aflaiction  a  trifle  blunted  by  slumbcr.  "  It's«— it's 
dused  hard  on  me,  by  George  !  l'Il  never  be  so  fond  of 
any  one  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Did  she  speak  at  àll  ?"  inquires  Valentine,  with  iû- 
terest  ' 

"  No,  she  has  not  spoken."  '*       °  ^   , 

Mr.  Farrar  turns  abruptly  away  as  he  ansyr^ers,  but 
looks  over  his  shoulder  to  speak  again  as  he  goei 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  yau  shoul^  linger  longer,"  he 
says,  roughly,  to  the  heir  of  njany  Valentincs.  ^Sh<r  is' 
dead.    There  is  nothing  you  cando." 
,       ''Are  you  sure— ^nothing ?"  . 

«'Nothing.  You  had  better  go.  I  suppose  th<^  vyill 
My  her  out  in  this  room.  She  Will  be  buried,  I  inf er.  f rôm 
thishouse."  ■     .         ■    ^ 

Mr.  Vane  Valentîûe  is  liot  used  to  being  tHus  sum- 
marily  dismissed,  but  he  wants  to  g^  and  does  not  resent 
it.  But-why  Mr.  Paul  Farrar  should  speak  /ind  àct  as  , 
one  havin^uthority  is  not  so  dlear,  except  that  hîs  mas- 
tcrful  chiper  is  rather  apt  to  assert  itself  wherevfef  he 
goc&        %>-f  .^ 

"  And  you,**  he  says  ;  «  I  must  see  you  again,  Farrar 
you  know,  before  you  leaye." 

."  I  shall  not  ieave  for  a  day  or  two,  I  shall  wait  until 
aftei»  the  funeral.    I  am  ïa  no  particular  hurry." 

"At  the  Washington  you  put  up  ?    Vcry  wcll,  I  will 
go  now,  and  look  in  on  you  later.    You  ought  to  turn  - 
in  for  an  hour  6r  two— you  Icok  quite  fagged  with  your 
nigbt'«  :^jratch.    Good-moming." 

"^j^/ough  the  bleak  chill  dwkness  of^the  dawning^^ 
y,  Vane A^aientine Eurriës ¥ome^ fulîof  hï«  news.    It 
^  is  a  very  bleak  and  nipping  monûngr,  it  tweaks  Mr.  Val- 
entine 8  thin  aquiline  nose.rosy  red,  and  pow^er»  his 


'-.  K 


•  -v 


'M 


¥ 


iî-.'j't^' 


^ 


''^' 


*         .» 


•  .''        ,  V'   *" 

«04        WBltll   RMCORDS    A,    TRAGeUy.     '" 
fréquent.;  Td"  ht'I',"  „T'„rbX™  He***''  '°  r" 

siept  well,  andis  a  good  pedeft/^  »nH  .  -^'  *"" 
.«roand  wi.h  rapid  sfride,,  W^wHaL  ?„  »^a  ,7  ■'.  •^'' 
îimself  ho«r  thortfuehlï  well  .L!I  B  ^*,,    ■  *'*'^'  "^r*"  '" 

-  i»  which  fa.e  hascuf  or  hfmtiil'    S*  "  T^H  "^^ 

«nds  »ord  ,0  his  aunfZ  hf  ^uTike°tJ'     V"**  "'*■' 
earliest  convenienr..     ft.7      ■"  '°  ***  hef  at  her 

upoo  oooX°'r îs  n^^n^'lirHr""*"^*  '^  ^'^ 

He  fine?  jhgi-  in  the  sittin^-room  r.fii«o* 
seated  in  front  of  i\^^         "*«g  room  of^last  evening, 

sbaw,.  a«,  ^h'  ;;v?:„i^  :,Tg^?^:  r^  r* 

and  dry  toast  at  her  side  ^^^eaicfast  of  chocolaté 

"  y6u  U  .oS^t;  «/to  te"2°"  "  T 

-  7-»--*^-    v'-"*'"  jwy  86*u  Mw-woinaii?^ — ^ — .~Y-=^ 

\  '  -■-'»/■ 


■;*BS.- -^      ■ 


i 


J 


\      '       • 


-^ 


1  .<»,-.*' »ç.T,.^  T    î 


"é^:  ?: 


:<^^5jC|t 


m 


•x 


^WmCH    RECORDS    A    TRAGÊDV. 


»0S 


L-,      r 


"4  havc  seen  her.    That  woman  willncver  trouble 
you  or  me  any  more."  i    :     .  |rouDie 

Sht  looksup  >^  him  again,  quibkly.     SomethiW  in 
'^^^.  ""^,  ^«"«  teî4  her  a  surprise  is  coming.         ^      . 
"spe^^^utr    ^^"'"??^'"  ^^'^^^  a«?d--periously; 
■     "Shé'isdead!"     "    T/   .,       .     "  - 

pegfé^  hard,  Js  dumb  fm-  a  moment  Dead  !  a"d 
Shl^J^l"^^  f  ^""  °^  strong,  young,  insolent  l.fel 
dilat?^'  herbreath,and  looks  at  him  wit4yes2t 

"Deadrsherepeats,  incredtilously.  ^ 

'  r^^l^^l^  "  -""^^^  and  d^adful  man-     ' 

And  then  he  begins,  înd  in  his  slow,  formai  wavr  but 
.  wjh  a  quickeaed  ïnterest  he  cannoi  ^hoT  sZ',Z 
telîs  the  story  oi  the  tragedy  at  the  cirduL      ^  '"PP*^?»     . 

And  so  it^nds,''  he  coocludes;  "and  Vith  it  ail 
^trouble  for  ug  as  well."  .     «  u  wun  it  ail 

In  tHe  warmth  and  gjow  of  the  fire  he  sees  W.  ..,-»^  " 

duver  and  draw  herwhiiç  Beecy  shawlc^r       '  "^ 

And  8o  it  ends— m  another  tramdv  '  .Gèor<«.  i.î„-> 
,tenejj*  .the  ble„ç,  sandy  moct^ll^^iJ^^« 

|^cmttur.-she had a  beautifoj  face.»  ^fev 


^t,. 


u^ 


-^  -i%oA-î*j.^ 


fc« 


-•tT  ,-♦?" 


1%' 


•M'^''% 


',>  f 


fev-. 


'^a!>h  rJ'*^'  ?*^  :;'»'•  ""y  *on.anIy,  i„  her\oae 
my  s^r^'^'  '""^  ""■"  *« 'hi«k/'.. Oh I  my  1 , 

buried    from    thê  h™.,,      k      '?"'"'»•    S»»  *«!  be 

beinir  but  a  faînTo    PP^^.'**®  '«^°»  ^nend  ^o  any  human 
^^"«r»  but  a  faint,  aogry,  mcredulous  smile  cr4ea  her 

,"^^o  »?  your  friend  Farmr  r 
Oh  I  no  one  you  know.  "  Man  I  met  in  P^t^oi  i    . 
year~«mnager  of  aa  immense  Dlace^J^     ^       *ï 
sort  of  fellow,  a  Bohemian  mf h!r  kT     u     '  ""^^^  «ood 

but  not  distin^guis^rCnf C^"^°  ""' "^-'^  ^«^^-W' 
Oh— aw— the  cl^ild.     Exactiv     Whof  t 


1  vi  r**v>  '^,'      »T 


,*,-#-'  •*!^.  :* 


'-4.i 


^^ 


^   C       fy» 


-     ■      ■        -        .^A   ^^^ 


/   WTiSr/cir    RECORDS    A     TRAGEny.        ,oy 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?"  he  asks,  and  in  hi;  voice  there 
is  cv^r  so  shght  a  touch  of  sullenness. 

«Nothing  that  can  aflfect  you-do  not  fear  it"  she 
retorts,  scornfdUy.  «I  hâve  no  désire  that^e  wortS 
should  kttow  that  this  cliilc^f  an  unfortunate  tight  i^De 
dancer,  is  anything  to  me^Sas  any  clâim  upon  he  nlme 
of  Valentme.  At  the  same  time  she  must^b^  provfd^  , 
for.  I  do  noti0  how,  or  where,  but  you  must  ^  t^ 
she  «  suitablTîared  for,  and  educated,  and  wa^s t^ 
nothing.  Hâve  you  tact  enough  to  manlge^hilwSiouî 
«xciting  suspicion  ?"  s'' i"*»,  witnout 

"  I  hope  so,"  Mr.  Valentine  responds,  rather  stiffly 

It  seems  a  simple  matter  enough.   You  are  a  rLhIàdv  : 

?o?„"rA  P"'  benevolence  you  compassiona^rthftfo^: 

lorn  condttion-aw-of  this  little  childVand  offJ^^r^l 

neLn'p        !,"  '»^^t-aw~state  of  lifkin  whlh^hw 

pleased  Providence  to  place  her.     No  one  else  hal  anv 

çlaim  that  I  hear  of     I  will  <rr^  a«^  .^    u        .  ^ 

u  viru  M.  "  8:0  and  sce  about  it  ât  once." 

Whom  will  you  see  ?" 

*•  Very  well,  go." 
^^Mr.  Va»e  Valentine  goes,  .nd  tries  hi.  l,and  at  diplo- 


!.-„         1*^**^  ."«««gcr,  ana  nnd  that  that  vcntUm»» 
"The  little  one  i.  totally  unproviaed  lor."h.  «« 


I 

4i 


'•«•,'• 


•  v 


y^" 


108 


f'fflCS^   XECOJIJJS    A    TRAG^Y. 


sort.  M.-.  ValenUné  r  ^         '  ^  "-yW-g  of  tl^c 

«No  doubt,  sir     wên  .  ,    ^''°' ^»'*«'''«- 

tteral,  the  «ri  at  ihl^  K^  ''J'e*»  she  is  until  after  the  fa- 
tien  Like  ï«t^^-  '>oart.„g.h„„,e  i,  good  .0  her,  add 

"Whenisthefuneral?" 

PJ^oses,  and^so  on^'she^^^^^^^^  «^"  ex- 

Hope  you  will  attend  the  Wmi         .,       °  "^^  ^^'^^«^e- 

They  promise,  and  In  kT     '  «^«""«°»en,  both." 
silent     ^       ^  ^"^  ^°'  *^°'^  ^«^7  thonghtf ul  and  rather 

,?j;-f^™isthefirsttospeak.    . 

-en  Si  U^kl^dS?;^^^^^^        '^^  -^^  ^  "  ^'  «P-ks 
«  Well  ••  ^"^"^^^^f  f  °d  gentleness  of  heart." 

her-the more so ZT^ Z,T ^.^l' *' ''  «<««< «>' 
what  i,  eall^  .trong.mted^'°?h^'  '"l"  ""*    8''«  " 


Kn^^  w        '         iS^*!  afi  tne  samer    Beat  thfwB^  »k^*  .     T^- 
aavehappened  tô  her-  fh«f  *«  ^"'"8^  "***  could^ 

to  bring  îîp  a  chiJd.-  P*^  '^^°"*°  '^w  °ot  fit 


5^'^3.<-;^    ' 


'/"v'V^-î 


1       ■  - 

WffICir    RECORDS    A    tRAGEJ>,Y,       109 

♦^Don't  agree_  with  you,"  sàys  Mr.   Farrar,  shortly. 

"It  is  never  best  for  a  child  to  lose  its  mother,  unless  she 

is  a  monster.    There  are  êxceptional  cases,  I  grant  you, 

but  I  don't  call  this  one.     I  hope  the  poor  baby  will  be 

.  bappy,  whatever  cornes." 

"  Coma  home  and  dine  with  me,"  says  Vane  Valen- 
tine,  who  is  in  good  spirits.  He  does  not  much  fear  the 
child,  and  a  large  sum  of  money  has  been  save(^  "  You 
will  not  see  my  aunt,  very  likely,  but  I  shall  be  dusedly 
glad  of  your  Company— and  that.  After  the  first  flush  of 
partridge  shooting,  it'is  confoundedly  slow  down  hère,  let 
me  tell  you." 

"  So  I  should  infer.  But  you  must  excuse  me  to-day, 
and  to-morrow  you  must  dine  with  me  instead,  at  the 
hôtel." 

"  But  why  ?  You  don't  prétend  to  say  you  hâve  such 
a  thing  as  an  engagement  in  Clangville,"  incredulously. 

"  No.  Still  you  will  be  good  enough  to  excuse  me. 
You  will  think  it  qu«er,  I  suppose,  and  squeamish,  but 
the  death-bed  scène  of  this  morning  has  upset  me.  It 
would  be  unfair  to  you  to  inflict  myself  upon  you.  So 
good-day,  my  dear  boy— hère  is  Mrs.  Hopkins'.  I  shall 
drop  ia  for  a  moment.    Will  you  come  ?" 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  says  young  Valçntine,  with  « 
glance  of  strong  repulsion.  "It  upsets  me  to  look  at 
dead  people,  and— that  sort  of  thing.  Until  to-morrow, 
then,  au  revoir,**  • 

The  two  men  part,  and  unconscious  little  Snowball's 
fate  is  thus  summarily  settled,  anc^  Vane  Valent\ne  goes 
home  through  the  melancholy  autumn  aftemoon  to  tell 
hisaupt 


^. 


t  . 


,1-  ^v. 


*  «   il- 


'i/.;,'H..^»4, 


IIO 


^^^OlfrBALz\DlSPOS£U 


of: 


'"  ^'•^W^i^mrh 


CHAPTER  X. 
»«  WmCR  SNOWBALt.  XS  WSPOSED  0,. 

•ndMr.  V«ne  Valent.„e  '  *"*' "^' »«*  Mr;  F^rr»; 

grave  and  pa.e-«„  imp^eLvë  fit?."""-  •  **/•  ''"'•«'  «««nds 
w«  sods,  «ttling  rapidlv  on  , h  'i°°'""S^  "<'»'»«  the 
hoilowsound,hJro;en'cCh^/."''«'*y'    Wha,  â 

teras  it,  thiugh.  perh   "Tti;  T°^f'  f  Vane  Valendnô 
^"'fe  lady,  still  mois.  .^^J.?^^^  ff  °;;.  with  a«.t 


^^^^^  Irlth  ev^^»X^  f^^  ^^<^  ^nemi,  and 


J!V' .  :■  ^; 


•*!: 


*•    » 


'f^r  ''^C'"'"'fe^' 


•   SNOWBALL    mSFOSÉD    OF. 


III 


too,  and  ît  is  little  Snowball,  and  her  future  they  are 
there  to  discuss.  "  '' 

Thechild  ha&  on  ,a  black  frock  and  black  shocs— 
things  çhe  bas  never  worn  before,.and  she  eyes  both  with 
muth  disapprobation:  » 

,   "Naray^  narsy,"  she  remarks,  with  some  asperity.. 

Narsybrack   dress;    narsy  brack   shoes.     'Noball  not 
like  em.   ^"Rike  'em  oflf,  Mimy  Ann." 

«  o  "  ^  u'  ff**^'"  ^^*  Jemima  ^nn,  wiping  fe  red  eyes. 
Snowball  must  wear  the  popr  little%ack  dress.     It  i» 
for  mamma,  Snowball  knows." 

^     «'^  lere  my  mamma  gone  ?    When  her  tum  back  ?" 
^'Thisinquiry  causes  .Jemima's  tears  to  flow  afresh. 
bnowball  eyes  them  with  consîdéraJt)le  disgîist 

"  Wliat  ypu  cwyip  for?    Wliat  you  a/a«^  cwyin  forr 
Noball  tired  you  cwyln.     Want  see 'Noball  dance  ?" 

Forthwith  Snowball  flirts  out  her  somber  skirtç  and 
cuts  an  infantile  pigeon  wingl-that  last  ballet  step  poor 
Mimi  taught  her  bantling.  If  anything  can  comfoit  Je- 
mima  Ann,  and  stem  the  torrent  of  her  tears,  Snowball  is 
convinced  this  must. 

"Look  at  that  child,"  says  Vane  Valentine,  much 
amused.  "  Blood  tells,  doesn't  ît  ?  Do  what  you  pleasc 
with  her  that  fairy  changeling  will  grow  up  like  her 
mother  beforé  her— a  thorough  Bohemian." 
c  ^ u  »? ^"^  **  looking,  and  thoughtfully  enourfi,  at 
Snowball  s  performance.  She  dances  wonderfully  well 
for  such  a  baby,  every  motion  is  instinct  with  lithe,  fairy- 
like,  inborn  grâce.  The  cloud  of  pale  flaxen  hair  floats 
aver  her  shoulders  like  a  banner,  the  black  dress  brings 
out  the  pearly  tmts  of  the  milk-white  skin,  the  swât 
baby  face  is  like  a  star  set  in  jet.      \  *  «e  sweet 

«Qh?K-^  'î  *  *T*y  ""*^  créature^"  Mr.  Fairar  says. 
_S^idsfair|oi^eQmeab«LutifulwomaB."  ^ 


1  en  to  one  she  grows  up  blowsy  or  freckled.' 


r^U^xr  tr  t        .        =»--"»   "H   uiuway  or  ireCKieCL     rC» 

Woade  girls  often  da    But  ye»-d«,  i.  «re^  at  prient 


'j: 


-M 


*1 


,,J 


■■;•,«." 


■■^ 


SKi 


lia 


SNOWBALL 


^^■^^«tf  **'?*''? 


"My  aunt?   My  dear  felfot  ^ou T    '"'"""" 
ttej^f.  it  will  „ot  beX  -^    ■  "^'^r  "  donc  with 

p-idenrhei-!Xi  ^ra5ï:rf/'  :r  ""-««'o 

1"H  at  least,  to  see  her     We  m^  „  ^'''T-»'''  """'d 
a-atforwhich  we  prortde     B„T       {  "{'"'««^«««J  i» 

ve^^a&tnrC"^-  ^4""^  -"-  a 

«on  ?••  ""«  acr^bat-a  vagrant  by  profes! 

''Mlle.  Mimi  isdeàd  Mr  w       .r  \  ' 

Far™r,wi.h  a  suddef^a"  Zi"! J''/''»«-A»ys  Mr. 

no  distinct  désire  toseesn^  ^^f"""^  «P*^ 

«.  tnat  she  désires  it  strongly. 


'^l'^^ifri  ii«ii.J^[|i 


#  '  ,    i  .     th.    * 


t     ■■ 


^4>î«'"î^'*'^ 


.^l.i.*..    .»Vi ,«,«if1«t»ff.'i 


'^^f^f^'^ 


SNOWBALL    DISPOSED    OF. 


"3 


that  ît  is  only  her  pridethat  preVents  her  put'ting  the 
désire  in  worde.  And  Vane-Valeiîtine  is  h©rribly  afraid 
of  any  such  consummation.  Who  knows  what  may  fol- 
low  ?  This  small  girl — ^as  George's  daughter,  and  owned 
as  such — bas  a  claim  on  the  Valentine  millions  far,  and 
away,  better  than  his  own.  And  she  is  so  perilously 
prettyiç-so  winning~so  charming— -with  ail  her  infantile 
,  sweetoess  and  grâce,  that^-oh  !  that  is  out  of  the  ques- 
Vtion — quHé  outof  the  question  to  let  Madam  Valentine 
set  eyes  on  her  at  ail.  She  is  not  in  the  least  liké  the 
family,  that  is  something,the  yalentines  are  ail  dark  and 
dûur^.As  tl^e'Scotch  say — ^this  child  is  fair  as  a  lily. 

"It  is- the  dickens  own  pv^rle  to  kàow  ivAai  tq  do 
with  heiv^'he  says,  gnawing^the  f^nd  of  his  callow  mus- 
tache,  "she  cânnot  étaytiiif^ere,  I  suppose,  and  she  can'l 
corne  to  the  cottage,  that  is  clear.  She  might  go  to  a 
boarding-school,  or  a  nunnery,  or — or  that,"  help^ssly. 
"What  would  you  do,  Farrar ?  You're  a  man  of  resoar- 
ces." 

"It's  rather  like  having  a  white  éléphant  on  your 
hands,  isn't  it  ?  Poor  little  éléphant — that  a  man  could 
take  up  between  his  finger  and  thumb — to  be  such  a  dead 
weight,  such  an  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  any  one's  shoul« 
ders  !  Are  you  really  serious  in  that  question,  Valen- 
tine ?  I  know  what  you  cûu/d  do,  but  will  you  do  it  ?  It 
woukN?e  a  capital  thing  for  the  child  too." 

"Mydear  fellow,  speak  out  I  will  do  an3rthing— 
th<^  little  thing's  goôd,  of  course,  b'eing  paramount" 

/  "Of  course,"  dryly.    «Well,  you  migbt  give  her  to 
me." 

"Whatr 

"  Not  to  adopt— not  to  bring  back  to  JFayal— only  to 

take  off  your  hands  for  the  présent  -  I  will  make  a  hanc^- 

somejsacrifice  on  the  altar  of  friendship,  tnjr  boy^put 

r^^ifourMÏiidl  wfiité  çlêphant  in  my  ôvercoei^  pocket,  and 

take  her  <  over  the  hills  and  far  awajr.' " 

Viui#yal«ii^  stands  and  stares  at  him,  half  in  aii^' 


's 


-il» 


■îrf   ^M  7T3ru»  iS*  lit; 


>a<îCti^-iL^^ 


[■il 


'■n 


"4 


!11     .  • 


"  6on  t  stand  ih,^  i     ,.  '  "'  ''"'"•'•ces.  "'"^ 

"«W  is  a  litue  girl.  "^'^  °'  ««"«m  MacdonaldV 

S>t  GUdasisover  the  river  from.K"?"'»  town,hip  of 

this.  Petite  shaU  bTmy^Xi'  "  ^"^  """^  »^'  of 
"nyojfer."  '^  ™™"'S  companioo.    Therei, 

"  My  dear  fellov  '"  rri«.  «    »r 
*»»  Famu-  !"  "   "^  ^^  ^uie  Valentine-"  my 

"laccepiwitlidcliriiftefc*!.      u 


J,Q-jnoiT< 


?f* 


r  -/^r-rK^^'i^Lî^^f^  ''^îP^?' 


SNOWBALL   DISPOSEE    OF, 


115 


libéral  compensation,  we  will  arrange  later.'Nbthing  in 
the  world  could  be,  better  than  what  you  propose." 
"  Madam  Valentine  will  be  satisfîed  ?" 
"  Perfectly  satisfied.     She  will  amply  provide  for  the 
child."       , 

"'Had  you  not  better  put  it  to  her?  as  it  is  she  who  is 
virtually  Snowball's  guardian  now,  should  you  not  ?" 

"My  dear  Farrar,  I  can  answer  for  her.     It  is  not 
necessary  at^Il.     I  bave  f uU  power  |o  act  for  her  in  this 
^matter.     She  does  not  want  to  see  the  little  one,  or  be 
annpyed  with  questions  about  her." 

"  It  would  annoy  her,  would  it  ?  That  makes  a  dif- 
férence, of  course.  Come  hère,  little  white  éléphant — 
such  a  poor  little  helpless  éléphant  !  and  tell  me  if  you 
will  leave  your  Minny  Ann,  and  come  with  me  ?" 

He  lifts  the  fairy  to  his  knee,  with  kifinite  tender- 
ness,  and  puts  back  with  gentle  fingers  the  ifalUag,  flaxen 
hair. 

"Will  you  corné  with  me,  lijtle  Snowball?  I  want 
to  take  you  to  thekindest  lady  in  the  world — a  pretty 
new  mamma,  who  will  love  little  Snowball  with  ail  her 
gpDod  heart." 

'The  child  puts  up  her  two  snow-flake  hands  and 
strokes  the  cheeks  of  her  big  friend. 

^*  'Noball  like  you,"  she  says.    "  You  is  a  pritty,  prittjr 
man.    'Moball  will  give  you  a  kiss."  « 

Which  she  doeâ»  an  emphatic  little  smack  righfc  on  the 
bearded  lips.  • 

"  Flattering,  upon  my  word,**  says  Vane  Vàlentineu 
"  Don*t  you  like  me,  too,  Snowball  ?" 

"No,"  says  Snowball,  curling  her  mite  of  a  nose. 
•*  You  is  not  a  pritty  genpyman.    You  is  very  narsy." 

"By  Jove!"  says  Mr.  Valentine,  and  stands  discom- 
fitcd.  .^ 

Mr.  F^irrarhra^^ 


'»  » 


.1  ' 


l 


*•  "t. 


^. 


**  And  yott  will  como  with  me^  SnowbaU  ?** 


^P^à 


^ 


^"mm 


fc^l^> 


ri'^ 


ir5 


V 


■«yMimyAnntun,™;       N""»"  "■■»  wiz  you.    M.y 
Triton.     AoTyr/Sm^iVl^"^"-".  Mi- 

.        of  the  dressing  and  uXstw  .h^/'""''-  ï"*"^  -•  tUnk  ' 
»n<t  ail  that.     Yo„  couldnV  ^^'       ^'''''"K  «»<'  «'«pin^ 
a  woman."  ""'"''  '  "■»»»£«  it-    You  mua  W   " 

"  Not  if  I  know  it      Th« 
jng-nicematronlyladies  i^'l"/^*'"'^'  "^^i"  ««vel- 

'    Mademoiselle  Snowbail's  i„f,!^i  ^^  "i'i  "'«nd  to  - 

St.  Gildas  is  o„ly  two  dayréff"'?"""-?,?"**  ^""^""^ 
No  ».„^„,  Valentine,  my  boy  an'  tïn     "?«^  '°  """  ^^ 

"  Wretched     toisoCTnist"    ,«.    ?"  '°*'^'  "«•" 
:'  Some  one  must  W^é^you  2^'  ,  ,^V    Valentine. 
by,  Farrar.    I  fonder  whylvo.f  ^       ""^  '°  'i»''''  go»e 

Well,  as  you  like  it,  only  I  would  ™,V    •     '"  '^^'^  '"<»<'•  ' 
el-ng  two  days  and  nlbtl"!!-;'  "*''*>""'  trav-, 
tJan  myself."  *"''  "«i*  a  girl-baby  in  change 

flavorof  vagabondism    ,  toTkft'h  f  T'°<'''^°S».  i" 
«clusion,  and  respectabili  y  andf^i  •    °?  '°'^'">''  ""1  ' 

afloM  l,ke  a  lost  st«„  on  life'™  dde"""'"''"'  "-^f' 
-'^^  is  speedilv  s^tt]^     »#    ^     °®* 

»an  ofpro^.i.Le'^nf disna'ich  "r  "  ""'-"V  a 
"■•lytoàanxioustomkan?  ^°°«  Vale„,ine  is 

■  ■  #  k 


iv 


k 


taÉi^?-:Jf 


jC' 


l'V*'*'        ^<   -1. 


SNÔWBALL    DrSPOSBD    OT. 


"7 


gratulation  that  a  kriolty  point  has  bcen  so  iwelï  and 
easily  gotteh  over.  ^ 

'  y*^^tjhe  had  se^n  the  young-one,"  he  says  to  himself, 
thinkihg/of  his  aunt,  "no  one  knows  what  might  hâve 
happened.  Shût  out  of  thc  world  on^is  far-away  island, 
she  wîll  speedily  forge<I  trust,  ail  about  her,  It  slyiU 
be  the  business  of  my  life  to  compel  her  to  forget^  Until 
the  fortune  is  actually  mine,  I-am  daily  in  dailiger  of  los- 
ing  it»  unless  she  forgets  her  son's  daùghter." 

Early  the  next  morning  the  first  train  bears^  away 
among  its  passenge?;s  Mr.  Paul  Farrarand  Miss  Sno\/- 
ball  Trillon.  Jemima  Ann  weaps  copiously  at  the  patt- 
ing-  A  glimpse  of  rodnance  lias  come  to  brighten  the 
--dttHsdrab  of  her  existence,  and  it  goes  with  t|ie  coing  of 
Snowbali. 

"Goôd-by,  good-by,"  she  sobs.     "Don't,  oh!    don't 
forget  poor  Mimi  An^  little  Snowbali  !"  •    - 

"What  ybu  cwyin'   for  runaf"  demands  Snowbali, 
touching  a  tear  with  one  minute  finger^  and  an  expres- 
sion of  much  distaste.     "  'Noball  dori't  lîke  çwyin'.     You 
'  is  always  cwyin'.  ^hat  you  want  for  cwy  some  moçe  ?" 

Snowbali  cries  not.    Her  shiall  black  cloak  is  fastened, 
her  little  black.  bonnet  tied  under  one  delicious  dimple^  ' 
she  is  kissed,  and  départs  in  high  glee,  and  aven  the 
memory  of  good|  Jeminja-Aùn  waxes  pale  s^id  dim  before 
the  nrst  ho^r  ha^  passed. 

Mr.  Farrar  has  been  right.  Ail  the  way,  ladies  Iake 
a  profound  ijpterest  in  pretty  Snowbali.  Her  deep  moum- 
ing,  her  exquisit*  face,  her  feathery,  fioating  hair,  her 
blue,  fearless  feyes,  her  enchanting  baby  smile,  her  piquant 
little  remarks,  captivate  ail  Whom  she  meets. 

*?  Isn't  she  sweet  ?" 

«Oh,  what  a  pet!"  * 

j^!- J'y'^L^eygihe  changes  rungion 


nme  remai-ks  the  whole  w^y.  Snowbali  fratemizes  with 
eveiy  one—she  docs  not  kno^^  what  b^shf  ulness  means  ; 
she  flits  «bout  like  a  bird  the  whole  day  long.    Perhapi^ 


Aj/i 


^*3 


^ÀiÇ  f-'-Ssj*à*i^ 


,  •^•»' 


5Jrotfrs,UX    MSPOSSO    ojt. 

J«' '»  charge,  ,„d  whoU  notrerfjfr'r"''''''*''»  l»" 

k«>w.    She  corne,  STo  ht,"""' ""*•«' »<>«««» 
fhtotion»,  replète  Î^S.  «ke  "^^  '""  •*" 
^      herself  OD  hiskn».  Jl    *"**,»»d   questions, 

•:  -^-7  pecic  wîtt  K"  T.^-r.""»''  ^ 

question:         .  ^sj  iips,  and  |)uts  tjjjrs 

"lî  raf.T^"'.  ^  ^««'^^Wnk  I  an,." 
^  "jrou  myuntie?"  ^ 

"Noryourunclc." 

-     "IsjfoumybrodenJ 

What  is  vou  den  >    %-        .    . 

means  to  be  |ti„d,  but  wrTaL^^"';:°°«'7-    Thel«ly 

TowhichSnowball'«r«r^    •    T^    ^  \ 

theo^theilax^  '^-d^iS^^^^^^^         ''  slecpr>  And 

of  Mr.  Farrâr's  heart  and^h?  m   ^^'^^  °^«'" '^^  «"egion 

^  iîp»  part,  «d  s;ot^^tTf,<^.-ïoj^^  an?the 
àresLms.  °^°*^^  »»  frfely  in  the  land  of 

^   The  dose  of  the  «econdda^ri-i-.«  *i,  «        ^ 

.  CoId.weatji»awaii8  .k, J^MM^fa®"  to  St.  GilduaL. 
The  snow  lièTdeep,  winds  bii^fflP*°^***«port. 
ers  under  her  wmps  in  Ût^^^'    ^«^^^î^àU  shiv- 


■**'^;j^i^SSiKNi«*» 


.A;;,':,.;»j^>Ç|f^- 


OP, 


Uf        y^ 


Thcy  accepÉ  the  chai^g^e  with  dclight,  thc  two  boys  of  the 
household  alone  cying  thc  iptruder  with  dubious  cyc^  a« 
itisinthc  nature  of  boys  tinder  nine  to  regard  small 
giris.-  But  nature  is  sometimes  outgrown. 

Mr.  Farrar  remains  ten  days-^ten  dàys  of  transport 
to  the  two  Macdonald  lads,  who  worship  him,  or  there- 
.abouts,  ten  days  of  gladness  tçythcir  parents,  ten  days  of 
mucircaressingand  infantile  love-making  on  the  part  of' 
Snowball,  ten  happy,  peaceful  daya.  Thcn  he  goes  back 
to  Payai,  out  thW  in  the  Azores,  and  to  the  monotonous 
hfe  of  the  manager  of  a  large  estate,  in  tl&t  dullest  of 
fair  tropical,  islands.  And  Snowball  Temains,  and  life 
on  its  new  page,  a  breeay  and  charmiug  and  healthful 
life  ojB  the  sea-girt  isle,  begïns.**     .         \       - 


«',»ï 


% 


>  •*>: 


I        J-*: 


T.    >•  ' 


-^ 


t% 


^   *$. 


V^^W'^\;  -'-^-^•  i?"Q>^F*''£ 


v 


'r    V 


'XiO 


/5Z^   FERDRIX, 


PART   II. 

XV»!  C*r&r-"  Ail  things  that  live  hâve  aou»  meuis  of  defeott.** 

^«•.-   Ay  aU-save  only  lovelyjielple»  woman." 

ifon  Carlo*.-  Nay,  womaa  has  her  tongue  amied  to  the  teetb  " 


-? 


^pj 


CHAPTER  XI.  . 

ISLE    PERDRIX. 

AR  away  from  grimy  New  Englané  mamifao. 
turing  towns,  from  coal  smoke,  and  roaring 
furnaces,  and  brisk  Yankee  trade  and  bustle, 
from  cireuses  and  flying  trapèze,  there  rests! 
rock-bound,  and  bare,  and  bleak,  a  green  dot  in  a  blue 
waste  of  waters-Isle  Perdrix.    Lonely  and  barren,  it 
rears  its  çraggy  headland,  crowned  with  stunted  spnice 
and    dwarf-cedars,  and   runs  out  its  sandy  spits  and 
tongues,  like  an  ugly,  sprawling  spider,  into  the  chlJIy 
waters  of  Bay  Chalette.    Through  the  brief  Canadian 
summer,  through  the  long  snow-bound  Canadian  win- 
ter,  with  the  fierce  August  suns  beating  and  blistering  it 
with  dank  sea-fogs  mapping  it,  with  whirling  snow- 
storms  shrouding  it,  Isle  Perdrix  rests  placid,  unchanged. 
almost  unchangeable,  the  high  tides  of  Bay  Chalette 
threatenmg  sometimes  to  rise  in  their  might  and  sweep 
it  away,  altogether,  into  the  stormy  Atlantic  beyond. 
Long  ago,  when  ail  this  Canadian  land  was  French 
_^±he  beautiful  languagc^e  oniy  oue  spok6n.it  faad 
been  christened    Isle    Perdrix.  •  Later,  with  Irish,  and 
.  iinghsh,  and  Scotch  immigration,  to  confound  ail  names. 

.       ■    ■•        *         .        '     •  \^ 


\.'::- 


^-Ai       i^^M^k 


^iT^uîi^::  ■  '4'Af^J^'Émi^-^î^'^^'' 


ISZ£    PERDRIX.  ,       tai 

jitbecame  Dree  Island;  otherwise  it  is  unaltered,  since 
ïfifty,  sixty,  more  years  agô.    Its  headland  light  burns  as 
k>f  yore,  a  beacon  in  dark  and  dangerous  Bay  Chalette— 
Kts  résident  physician  is  still  résident,  as  when  in  that 
Ifar-olf  tmie  it  was  a  quarantine  station,  and  men  and 
wromen  died  m  the  long  sheds,  erected  in  the  sands,of^ 
I   sh.p  fever,    faster  than  hands  could  bury  them.     It  is 
lan  island  undermined  with  graves,  haunted  by  ghostlv 
memor^es.     The  world  moves,  but  it  moves  languidly 
about  Dree  Island.     It  is  a  quarantine  station  still.  but 
fus  hosp.tals  hâve  stood  empty  for  the  past  décade  of 
years  ;  emigrant  ships  corne  rarely  now  to  dull  St.  Gil- 
das,  and  Dr.  Macdonaljl  finds  his  office  pretty  well  a 
|sjnecure.    He  lives  there  still  though,  a  sort  of  femil^ 

over  m  St.  Gildas,  and  bnngs  up  his  two  boys  iû  their 

j^W^mg  hfe  to  be  made  viceroy  of  ail  Her  Majesty's 

Dr.  Macdonald's  island  castle  is  a  cottage~a  lonir 
white  cqttag^,  only  one  stor^  and  an  attic  high     bS 

though  low,  it  is  lengthy,  and  contains  some  ninf  or  t^ 
pretty  rooms,  and  always  a  spare  chamber for  the  pilgrim 

to  sketch,  and  fish,  and  shoot-bronzed  and  bearded  pil- 

Et;ea?"'V""  '^«  States,  officers  from  Ottawa  ^nd» 

Montréal,  and  go  away  cbarmed  with  the  doctor   the 

L^r.      ?i'^J*°"'  D'.Angus  Macdonald's  génial  man- 

Most  kindly  of  hosts,  most  gentle  of  gentlemen  is  thé 
dr«uny  doctor,  and  in  her  way  «  Ma'am  Weesy  "-so  the 
ch^dren  shonen  her  stately  baptismal-is  a  .i^^  ï^^^^^ 

p«.';4x  ï.t  as -"I  ^ 


^,t^y\!à,idS->%.t^ 


*. 


'■•s 


^^ 


-TT" 


^t 


n.>j 


Il     \ 


^ 


123 


fSZ£    PERDUIX. 


months  out  of  the  tweive     A^r„.     •  ^  *"■  *"""■ 

hop.vi„e  a„d  .ar,et  ™te.  d4ne'2ra"nd  T "  °' 

carry  away  so  man/'L^ch  ^    fV  rXr""^;  T'" 
»ay  be  sincère  enough  in  Droi.o,U?„*^  portfolios, 

Perdrix,  a  peice  that  may  aîm^«  be  Sf»""^!  ""î  '''" 
w  nds  and  sea.    Th^  ...™J      ,     .        '■  *  ^reat  calm  o( 

i^  b.„e,  '^z^^^'ZT:::^v^^:^::^r■'  '\ 

of  .he  océan,  jusS.  ^b^'iret  bu'ttitl  '''^T' 
toowerea.wea,7in  ,he  unusualS  LitSbv'  '' 
lets  lap  with  murmurons  motion  uln, S  ^  '**™- 
thegulls  thatwhirl  and  cT,^ k  roX  .h^- r^ '!"'^'- 
even  shriek.  "  '"*  '*''"«l  d»  not 

fro:t::,eX"UTa:"a':'st  tild"""^^.  t  '^°''°^  '» 
turbing  élément  o/th^oUS'  tVcîf  M^at W  "" 
does  not  exactly  know  wbere,  but  ^eTe  shf  wiT  J^'^ 
slie  devoutly  hopes  for  anoth;r  horor  twn  V  •  r'" 
-as  the  thonght  crosses  the  oW  w»'  mTnT.h""' 
cornes  the  sound  of  shrlll  .»^.  ^«^n  s  mind,  there 
and  patter  of  smaîl  W  T  ''°«"«'  »  "'•''=''  ™sh 
the  cS^é  kitch^^i  tw'  ,  f  T'  ^'^  '"""  "W^'»  i-'o 


'  Here't  to  tb«  irind  tluit  blowa, 
And  the  ship  that  goes. 
And  UW IM»  «M«  kww  *  «nHOf," 


'*H<»iiallilwW.i,iM.,^ 


.•.j<. 


^«■■."U^Ba^ 


^^^^         ^_  q5t**  . 


ISZJS    PERDRIX. 


X23 


«Oh,  Ma'ain  Weesy  !"  cries  this  breathless  apparition, 
^*whert  is  Johnny  ?" 

She  stands  in  the  doorway  directly  in  the  strèam  of 
yellow  morning  sunshlne,  her  sailor  hat  on  the  back  of 
her  head— a  charming  head  "siinning  over  with  curls," 
and  looks  with'  two  eyes  as  blue  and  bright  as  the  July 
sky  itseif,  irtto  the  old  woman's  face. 

She  is  a  charming  vision  altogether,  a  tall,  slim  girl, 
in  a  blue  print  dress  made  sailor-fashion,  and  trimmed 
with  white  braid,  a  strap  of  crimson  leather  belting  \\. 
about  the  slender  waist  Long  ringlets  of  flaxen  fair- 
ness  fall  until  they  touch  this  belt  The  face  is  bewitch- 
ing,  so  fair,  so  spirited,  so  fuU  of  life  and  eagerness,  and 
joyoïjs  felthful  fouthi  ■■■  It  m&tçh0s  thfe  bioride  hair  and 
sky-blue  eyes— it  is  ail  rose-pink  and  pearl-white. 

Ma'am   Weesy  pauses  in  her  work  with  a  sort  of 
groan.     She  is  peeling  potatoes  for  dinner,  and  throwlng 
them  into  a  tin  pan  of  cold  watfer  beside  her.   The  sunny 
kitchen   is  a  gem  of  cleanliness  and  oomfort;  Ma'am 
Weesy  herself  is  a  little  brown  old  person  of  fifty,  as 
active  and  agile  as  a  young  girl,  and  housekeeper  for 
fifteen  years  in  the  doctor's  cottage.     She  is  mon*ch  of 
ail  she  surveys  at  présent,  for  Madame  Macdonald  is 
dead,  and  an  autocratie  ruler.    That  kitchen  "interior" 
is  a  picture  ;  everj-thing  it  Contains  glows  and  gleams 
again  with  friction,  tinware  takes  on  the  brilliance  of 
silver,  the  rows  of  ^ishes  sparkle  in  the  sùnshiue.    In 
the  place  of  honor,  in  a  gilt  frame,  hangs  her.  patron, 
that  handsome  Saint  Aloysius  Gçnzaga,  to  whom  in  ail 
her.difficulties,  culinaryaswell  as  conscientious,  she  is 
accustomed  to  promptly,  not  to  say  peremptorily;  appeal. 
She  casts  an  imploring  glance  at  him  now,  for  this 
youthful  person  is  the  one  of  alL  the  family,  who  rasps 
and  exaspérâtes  her  most,  but  Aloysius  copttnaes  to  rp.— 
gard  them  with  his  grave  smile,  and  responds  not. 

"  Where  is  Johnny  ?"  repeats  impatiently  the  vision  in 
flàxen  curls  and  saiJor  suit;  "/s  he  up-stairs?    I  «w't 


» 


H)^^(_ir»^vuâr».  A^'L-n'fî,  ■■>^jl> 


■  ^.i'-lvij'v'»^-,^. 


;:.v 


"4 

find  him. 


^SZ£   PERJDRIX. 


:-é 


nation-"  yo„  heard  h  Lsav  h!^    '^  r'»  shriU  i„dig. 
eleven  o'clock,  and  I  cân'r  fi  ^  ?"'     •*"<'  now  it  js  pas, 

ears  wi.h  her  hands.     "Madëm  '^  «^ee^r.  and  cove«  I,er 

Vou  must  not  corne  scream  ni  a,  L^  ,u  "'^^  "''«  ""is. 
not.  to  be  borne  ;  your  va  "    t  T  "^^ t  '^"S"".  i'  is 

•    and  an  expression  of  bhnï  d.   ^^""^'  P""°»  '"  blue, 
fade.  "^  ^'^•^"fc  despair  crosses  the  sunn; 

Then  she  looks /at  Ma'am  WeP.;..  .  ^  u  . 

*'i  don't  believe  it  "  she  .Z     ^      "^  brightens  a  bit 

îhere."  "'^  ^^^e,  at  least,  is  gure  to  be 

"Idon't  want  M'sieur  Ren.»  "  « 
an  aggre/sive  tone.     «l  want^l  ^'  «mademoiselle,  in 

-nd  things,  when  you  mi^lt  kfow  /"v  "^  '^"^  '^^  ^"-^^^ 
might  hâve  sent  old  Tim     A„d  n  "^^"^  ^^'"-     ^°" 

"tes  past  eleven,  and  the  best  «f  rh.''!!  "'  ''  ^°"'-^««»  "^'n- 
«ntil  you  want  me  to  shell  '  eL  /  ^^  ^°""-  ^°"  ^^'t 
and  you'Il  see."  P^""^  ^^'^  >^ou,  or  rake  ciàms 


V 


V>«*' 


■ .  ^^^/X't/ik^  "/' ~'''.iV;it^/,|rmt^-n  ^>'.  ■?;  K.>f/>/'-i-r''ii4  -^.^f 


fSZ£    PERDRIX.  j,^ 

abont  the  kitchen  wôuld  be  less  of  a  tonnent  over  her 
work  than  mademoiselle. 

Mademoiselle,   meantime,   recovers  her  spirits  with 

great  rapidity.  the  moment  she  is  out  of  the  house  TnH 

starts  off  at  racing.  .peed,  despite  the  blazlng  suTt^  the 

Point     It  .s  a  lofty  peak,  at  the  extrême  ouTer  edge  of  a 

projectmg  tongue  of  land,  overlooking  the  bay  and  the 

own  across  the  river,  and  ail  boats  pas^sing  upL  down 

If  the  missmg  Johnny  is  on  «ea  or  shore  mademoisdlê 

is  determmed  he  shall  know  she  awaits  him  and  hastens 

his  lagging  steps.     So  standing  erect  on  her  lofty  perch 

cuma::Sâi;!°t^h/r:^;r''  ^^^-^^^'^^  ^^^• 

tion  as  they  listen  ^^""'  ^^"'^  ^"  consterna- 

the  dead."   ''"^'^^*"-     ^°"^  «^"«ks  are  enough  to  wake 
.^.  ^l'VP®^^^''  ''  *  y°"*^  «f  sîxteen  or  so.  stretched  in 

Snowball  glances  down  at  him,  and  her  only  answer    ' 
yo«.    Iwant  Johnny"    *°'"  "«*«  •>"«•    I  don't  want 

René  MacdonaîHnd  Mil»  <5   ^  t'.Pt""'"»  '*"«'«"'  «• 


.<-3 


ri' 


i-.^-ï^At'éifei^ïi*'  t^A-o' 


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fSLM   PERIXMIX, 


"Look  hère,  René,"  Th1^;'T^'^'r''• 
•      "me,  ,00.,   You'ij  „^ke  y<,^„^,f  '    .  ,  "'^h  >»"  would 

1     keep  on  over  book»  f„„  f"'"""^  »' »  bat,  if  you 

-       «o  Chapeau  Dieu  for    "spb'^fH:^^:!^"*'- «°-ï 
algpid  booic  in  your  DockeÉ  ••  iTl  !'•      ,°--^°   Pu<    thàt 

•   berryiug  is  muchCl^ard  woTk  fh!"'  *'='^,'"'-'<'.  "«nd 
Ypu'W  inveigle  Jolinnv  i„.  ^"  scofcher  of  a  tiay. 

take  care."  ^  '"'°  "  «"nstroke  if  you  don'i 

down  tto  «tp  .side'^''J°°"'>?."'  »°<J  ««"«s  dashing 

.  The  iast  five  fe'et  she  tak  t  wulfa  «vint  f'^  ^'"""°- 

.    like  a  tomado  at  the  lad's  lÀT  ..  f^    ?  '^*P'  ^"d  land» 

3ne  produis  fro™  i  hidl!;     V""  '"""^  "^^  "' 

ket,basket  of  noble  oroDorHo^""'.?'  *  ba^et-a  mar- 

display,  the  contents    '^"''  ""'P'  "^  '"«  ~ver,  aod 

minc^"t:,tïL^'i„::f;' -''.'î^      "-""o  «f 

pound  cake-al,  .,„,e'„  f^:'^  ZZ'^^t''^'^  ^^ 
cuits,  and  a  blueberry  tart  '  Th. T  ■  ^*  ReneJ-bis- 
Paoked  it  mvself     I.\.  7  .  *  ''*'''«'  '»  full_/a//_i 

ries  are  x^c^Mc^^^'^Zl'"'"''^  """^  «"e  «spher' 
was  there  r*,e:dLt'an  "^yTsr  TJT"'-  ■"'''"'^ 
to  make  an»,  *nd  says  we  II  k  ^"'^  "  eo'ng 

.ye^  evening  for  a  ^  XrÏ:L"!d^r{  1°^ "^ 
She  is  fairjy  d^cia»  with  .L  "««— «hink  of  that  !" 

Peal  Wueeye^  toiTlfeTtarsTTf  "'  **  'P~^^  "« 
-oncake  ..,  day  t  «"t Jl^lT ^rpL^^j^P^f 


•«*...-*~"»«*«*i.». 


*A 


'  •'.«,. 


ISLE    PERDRIX. 


iif 


fevcr  after  !    His  resolution  staggers — hc  hésitâtes — he  \i 
lost  ! 

"Dû  ccme!"  réitérâtes  Snowball,  and  eycs  %od  lips, 
md  clasped  hands  repeat  the  prayer.     She  looks  lovely 
is  she  stands  in  that  beseeching  attitude,  but  it  is  not  her 
t)eauty,  nor  her  entrcatingtone  that  moves  the  obduratej 
fRene— it  is  the  sweet  prospect  of  shortcake  and  jam. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  condesccndingly,  "  I  don't  care  if  I 
Jdo.  It's  aiways  easier  yielding  than  rowing  with  you^ 
[and  papa  toM  me  to  keep  you  and  Jack  out  of  mischief 
'  whenever  I  got  a  chance." 

He  is  a  siender,  dark-skinned,  dark-eyed,  French- 
looking  boy,  very  like  his  dead  Canadian  mother— not 
exactly  handsome,  and  yet  sufficientîy  attractive,  with 
that  broad,  pale  forehead,  and  those  dark;  hiwiinous  eyes. 
AU  sort  of  taisty,  dreamy  ideas  float  behitid  thatîhought- 
fuMooking  brow;  he  is  qii|te  a  prodigy  of  indu«tiy  and 
talent,  head  boy  of  St.  Francis  Collège,  overat  St.  Guidas, 
where  he  and  his  brother  are  stu  dents.  ^  ^ 

"  There's  Johnny,  now  !"  cries  Snowball,  in  accents  of 
exquisite  delight.  She  drops  the  basket  and  bounds 
away  fleet  as  a  fawn.  "Johnny!  Johnny!"  she  c^lls, 
"  l've  been  looking  for  you^f verywhere,  and  calling  ùntil 
I  am  hoarse.  How  couid  you  be  so  awfuUy  horrid  as  to 
go  to  St.  Gildas  and  never  tell  »Kf /" 

"Hadn't  time,"  responds  Mastcr  Johnny,  resting  on 
the  gunwalc  of  his  boat,  the  '' Botde-de-nàger  **Wcesy 
wanted  her  groceries  in  no  end  of  a  hurry.  Vm  hew 
now,  though  ;  what  do  you  want?" 

John  Macdonald  is  fourteen  years  old,  and  is  at  this 
moment,  perhaps,  the  handsomest  boy  in  Canada.    His 
face  is  simply  beautif^il.    He  is  handsomer  even,  in  his  < 
boyish  fashioa,  than  tnc  pretty  gir!  who  stands  beside  •' 
«^"n-    He  is  not  in  thg  :east4ike  his  brothcrt  he  is  taHei— 


ttt  fourteen  than  René  at  sixteén— he  is  fair,  like  his 
Scottish  forefathers,  with  sea-gray  eyes,  and  a  face  pcr- 
fcct  enough,  in  form  and  color^  for  an  idéal  god.    liis 


-.-% 


I  'r 


J^- 


ia8 


S 


5*7 


,-•  f 


ISL£    PEUDUix. 


tain   sitnplicity  and   ,.no       "       ""  *°^  «^^d,  and  a  cer 
%  sight.  "^'"^  '*^  *  face  that  wins  ail  hearts  at 

"  What  do  r  wanf  >"  ^^ 

"«.tV a  question  foryoïto  sit  ^r'*"*"''  "''»«  her; 
blush,  isn*  it  ?"  '  "  '°  ^"  ">««  and  ask  without  à 

■       thafs  whafs  the  matter     Th°  *^°  '?  ^'"^P^"  Dieu,  S 
-       *ater,  Jet  me  tell  you"         ^"^  '""  «  »  ""a^er  ou  the 

/oCyt'/ot^;-"  tâ''X.''ST~''  "*-' 
too-«,ing  the  loveliest  lunch    ^h    ."  """"""  '"'«  "ad, 

cation  before  him.  ^         *  °^  i^eart-broken  suppli. 

*'  Oh,  ail  riVht  "  «nvc   t^u 
wouldn't  cry  aboût  U  if  I  t?^'  "'"'  ''««  '«»«■     "I 

"He's  comine  too      ,  °'^'«'«e.  as  usual,  I  suppose  " 

lunch  basket  is  h^e.    It  is  hllf  '     .  T  "  ""°""  =  «"e 
to  hâve  been  olT  .w^ho„„'^^P^'  eleven-we  Ought 

'''^'^-^-^^^Z^^l^:Zx:>'''  ""  «^■'"«V.saya 
«an  pile  in  and  waiL    I  won't  t   '    ?'       ^°"  «"d  Reie 

"  Don't  tell  Weecv  ,  T      ^  "  """ute." 
bail  afterhi»    ^sKe^'eTo'"  «"-^•"  ««-Sno.- 
«ear  my  clothes  and  stafn  m^«I^5°  ^»y^-^&  because  I 
»es3  sake,  hurry  up.    ï  "v^f  ^.^'""Kt    And,forgood- 


^«.^I-«.notgoingtodoiUnthep„3.nt.tat.„, 


.V 


/SZ-ff    PERDRIX. 


199 


le  thermometer,"  i:^es^onds  Johnny,  leisurely  taking  up 

lis  parcels,  and  leisurely  departing.     He  is  never  in 

urry,  this  boy,  and  is  thereby  a  striking  contrast  to 

nowball,  who  always  is.     Extrêmes  meet  indeed,  ia 

eir  case,  for  they  are  as  utterly  unlike  in  most  ways,  as 

toy  and  girl  can  well  be.     In   ail  conflict  of  opinion 

ctween  them,  it  may  be  added,  mademoiselle  invariably 

omes  off  victorioûs.     It  is  always  easier,  as  René  bas 

îaid,  and  as  Johnny  knows,  where  she  is  concemed,  ta 

^ield  than  to  do  battle.     Not  that  René  ever  yields— he 

nd  Snowball  fight  it  out  to  the  bitter  end,  and  René  will 

le  minded,  or  know  the  reason  why. 

The  batteau  is  large  for  that  sort  of  boat,  carries  a 
imall  sail,  is  a  beauty  in  her  way,  and  the  idol  of  young 
[John  Macdonald's  heart. 

"  She  walks  the  water  like  a  thing  of  life,"  he  is  fond 
of  quoting,  gazing  at  her  with  giistening  eyes,  and  it  is 
the  only  poetry  he  is  ever  guilty  of  quoting.  She  is 
ipainted  virgin  white,  is  as  clean  and  dry  as  old  Weesy's 
kitchen,  and  marries  h'-r  namejn  gill  letters  on  her  stem/ 
'  Boule-de-neige."  The  original  Boule-de-neige,  with 
René,  "piles  in  "  according  to  the  skipper's  orders,  and 
[with  thè  precious  basket  stowed  away,  sit  and  wait  his 
return.  Snowball  taps  impàtiently  with  one  slim,  san- 
daled  foot. 

René  impassively  reads. 

"Wiiat  tiresome  book  "hâve  you  got  nmvr*  demands 
Snowball,  in  a  resentful  tone.  "  I  do  think,  René,  you 
are  the  stupidest  boy  that  ever  lived,  and  rea4  the  stupid- 
est  books  that  ever  were  printed." 

"  Thanks^  !— I  mean  for  self  and  books,"  retorts  René, 
"you,  who  never  open  a  book,  are  a  judge,  of  pourse." 
"Whatisthat?" 
^*  Shakespeare's  tragédies,  mademoisftïle." 


■- ■    ■'■'    '^liiMi'  .    .-*   ■-■■■----7^       -T.  O'    ■---*■■■--"       ^'^***^^*^^**.^*  j. :...,■■■■-■,. 

«There  yrill  be  another  tragedy  in  this  boat,  in  five 
minutes  if  you  don't  put  it  in  your  pocket.  Look  at  that 
8)cy,.look  at  this  soa,  feel  this  velvety  wind  freshening^ 


SA 


l^^»j^ite^^i5;«fI,;ia?)4iA''-!j  j'vSf^ 


i.  V  **<( 


*»      -        T      -\   -^ 


h  "■ 


«30 


V 


>      ,-  1  '    • 

I 

«appose  you  are  at  Mactah     l    h   1*?  "'  "  ^'  '    ' 

■  .»d''4i~----'^-«.asSit::îo..e  r 

.a^rrrtr^^i;'it'^^^^^^^^^    Oh.Re„e-beW 
and  shut  up  that  book  ùnH  .,Tfv  ^  '^>'  °'  »  ^^^oge, 

one-s  conversatioa  L  „iL°  o*  "'*  ?<""= '»  adap. 
•f'iernot.  It  is /r«,,  ,oTalk%^?»tPr^v  ^nd  I  «rould 
silence  is  gold."  ™f  "'■•    Speech  is  silver, 

we  :!?;!::  a^tîe'';';ir/^'«".  ^^un;;  «now 

•^/-w  Wm7    I  ^nrnl.^  ^tional  convfersatioû-^for  which 

ou.  j.j,„„;.  •■ ---  -d.  «, .       «'^■oh. 

th.s  island  alone  with  you    R^fl         ^"^  '^  ^^  «^ 
•wpuld  happen  ?"  ^     '  René,  do  you  know  what 

wu:yina"n:e:td>r  litrr''"'^  -<">- 

se.fs.alkingabau'tlifceXt,ori.e„  %  ''""'^^  >-- 
velvet  dressing-eown   and  ™t  rû        '""'*''  '°  »  ^tack 

trailiagafter,  singing  taZndsTf    ^'"'^  '"  "y  •"»'■• 
Something  i„ fhif  ^ L°    «fkfeT^h;""  f  '""'•"- 

mean'to  ^'"fut^'rl''  °'  .^''°"'«"'  "ho  doe,  „„, 

~r*^'  «mrokër  ask.  Johnn,,  hearing  down  „po. 


-  \ 


w^:' 


y,  •  jjjfjt-'Vf 


1 1  ,.•' :î-i2w^ 


»St 


fSZB    *f^Ri>RlZ. 

•  f^  ^ 

[thcm  rapidly.    "Got  the  basket,  Snowball  ?"  Yes,  I  s<* 
Bear  a  hand,  René,  old  bqjr.     Hooray,  oflf  she  goes  !" 

The  boat  slips  ^ily  off  t^^  shelving  beacb,  ^nd  out 
I  Into  the  shilling  waters  of  Bay  Chalette.    A  fresh  breezo 
has  sprung  up,  and  tempers  the  fierce  beat  of  the  noon- 
day  sun.     The  sail  is  set,  and  away  the  pretty  Boule-de- 
neige  Aies  in  the  teetU  of  thé  brisk  breeze.^  ^-^ 

Johnny  is  past-master  of  the  art  of  bàndling  a  boat  ; 
he  and  his  battean  are  known  everywhere,  for  miles 
along  the  co«sL  He  has  b€tetf  a  toiler  iÀ  the  sea  ever 
since  he  was  sèven  years  ôld. 

"  You  didn't  tell  Weesy,  did  you?"  asks  Snowball,  as 
they  fly  along  at  a  spanking  rate.  ^ 

"  She  didn't  ask  me,"  answers  Jphnriy.  "  I  told  her 
tvc  were  ail  going  out  for  a  sail,  and  woulda't  be  back 
wntil  dark.  She  cast  a  grateful  look  at  St.  Aloysius,  ' 
over  the  chimncy,  and  murmured  a  prayer  of  thanks- 
giving.  Hâve. you  brought  tin  pails  for  the  bornes?— 
yes,  I  see—all  right."  ^  * 

'\  Thçy  fly  along.     And  presently  Snowballi  Ijiag  idiy^ 
over  thèside,  her  sailor  hat  well  back  on  her  hea4  de-   ' 
fiant  alilèe  of  sun  and  wind,  break^  into  a  song,  and 
presently  Johnny  joins  in  the  chorus.     It  is  a  sailor's 
song— a  monotonous  chant  the  French  sailors  sing  alon^  -  '< 
the  wharves  of  St.  Gildas,  as  tHey  coil  down  roj^  and 
the  two  fresh  young  voices  blend  sweetly,  and  flJat  ovêr 
the  summer  wâters.     And  still  a  little  lat^r  René  ppckets 
his  book,  and  his  clear  ténor  adds  force  to  the  refrain  as 
they  rapidly  increase  the  distance  between  themselves 
and  Isle  Perdrix.  , 

"  Where  aife  you  going  to  land,  Johnny  ?"  he  asks,  at 
Icngth.     «  At  Sugar  Scoop  beach,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  don't,  Johnny,"  cuts  in  Snowball,  who  is  no-  ' 

^^'"g:  '^M  CQ'U^mdidtflqr^^^iaiMLat  ^eedlc's^Potat.  4ike^-~ 
agood  feilow." 

"  Sha'n't,"  returns  Johni^y.    «  I  don't  want  to  stovc  a 
holc^in  the  bottom  of  the  batteau.    Needle^s  Point,  i».      :^ 


VU*"  ^ 


•î.    '  ^:^ 


tl.  5'*: 


11,1     m* 


i^S^r 


' ,  ■ .  -^       "        ',.:■■'■  "t", 

"The  '^^rr^^^^X'^:iaT^''^^^z 

René.   "Dnnv«         ^'«c  is  rumed  for  lifp  "  ;„: 


WMd  be  four  when  „e  goe'th^r  ';''°  "'^'"'^  "o-';  i 

K  afr  r .'r  -  --eVpit:  r^tï 

qu-et  lifey  is  hU  peac^ful  ^^L^""^  "P"    Anything  for  a 

wiT;!*"'*.  *«  boat  round  tosL.rL^'"'''"'"^^"'"""» 
es.  Joiinn\*  "     k 


i«*-rrf<j^  HÎ'«iî«».i^i-„.i.  '■«■'-'i»îîîr/4*ïltA«&>.'r»        iifl 


'^.■■.Vv 


ISLE   PERDRIX. 


;ffi^5^;V  ^, , 


«33 

rbasket.     No  njatter  what  you  do,  or  where  you  put  me  ï 
[keepthe  lunch  basket."  .        ' 

"Oh,stow  ail  thatr  says  the  badgered  but  pacifie 
Johnny.  "  Sit  down,  Snowball  ;  <io  you  want  to  upset 
yourself  and  your  precious  lunch  basket  into  the  bay  ? 
Let  her  aloûe,  René  ;  it's  never  any  use  fighting  with 
her;  you  know  she'll  hâve  her  way,  if  shê  dies  for  it 
ni  land  you  at  Needle's  Point  or  on  top  of  Chapeati 
Dieu,  if  you  like,  Showball,  only,  for  goodncss*  sake,  don't 
make  such  an  awful  ro.w." 

••  Very  welj,"  says  René  ;  «it  is  you  who  will  repent, 
not  I.     The  batteau  is  yours.     If  you  like  to  scuttle" 
her 

His  shoulders  go  up  for  a  moment  expressivély  ;  then 
he  pulls  out  his  book,  and  relapses  into  digdity— and"^ 
Shakespeare.  **     -^ 

"I  guess  it  won't  be  so  bad  as  that.  It  will  be  high 
Ude  when  we  get  there,  and  TU  manage  to  run  her  up  " 
Thus  hopefully,  Johnny,  and  thus,  in  silence,  the  rest  of 
the  voyage  is  performèd. 

Chapeau  Dieu— so  called  f  rom  its  fancied  resemblance 
to  a  çardinars  hat-is  a  mountain  of  ponderous  propor- 
tions, as  to  circunïference,  thougb  nothing  remarkable  as 
to  height.    Its  basé  is  the  terror  of  ail  marinersand  coakers 
-rock-bound,  beetling.  undermined  with  sunken  reefs- 
a  spot  marked  dangerous  on  ail  charts  ;  a  élace  to  b^ 
given  the  widest  possiblei)erth  on  a  dark  night  or  a  foeev 
dayf    Many,  many  good  ships  hâve  lain  their  bones  to 
rest  forever  in  the  seething  reefs  that  encircle  Chapeau 
<J'  ,^"i;^e  .mountain  is  famous,  the  countrj- round. 
asV  place  for  picnics.  berrying  parties,  and  the  like 
though  anxious  parents  tremble  a  little,  even  in  the  sun- 
niest  weather,  at  thought  of  their  young  people  there. 
^:^^^^àen  sgualls  hâve  been  knoWû  to  rise.  and  ga^ 
f  Icasure-bo^  wkfa-their-merry  ërews,  hâve  gone  down 
"1  one  dreadful  minute,  to  be  seen  nûimorj  There  îs 
but  one  safe  landing-place-Sugar  Scbo^^  beach-but 


j*'\ 


"fffi 


r 


4^ 


•i  f  iffjrti^i'.tei'.'  V 


B»:* , 


\~" 


9 


(«c 


■j»*  . 


•^i.» 


,  ry  ^■«' 


-»c 


^» 


«34 


ÏSLE    PERDRIX. 


dicular  wall  of   Lfc      ,7t  '""  "*"*'  P<"-P™- 

Johnny  steers  th^  kL,  J     ■     .  ""^'""s  moment,  as 

i'  goes.     But  t1,e«  "'  io  s^STnl?h??;"  ""  ^"""^  "' 
15  safe  inside  the  churning  tZm  '"'"'^  ""• 

«o  hâve  getting  tr  off\  h  theXtil"'  r  ""  '"""' 
yourlookout.  Makeherfasta?f»r  .  ""'^«''"•. '' « 
will  hâve  a  wade  for  it  and^l  I^ÎTk"'  "  '""  '^"^  «'« 
-that.is  some  comfcn  ■•  ""'  "^  "*'  «°  ""e  eibo,-, 

.   takes  him  at  this  point,  ^  ***®  °^«''* 

gen.ted's/:;a.";an?aff:;L':''  ir  .'"'f '/f  «»«^ 

w«)rk  of  bringing  us  hère  anH^  ™  ''*'*  ""=  "*<>•« 

.  Which  is  uniL  t„  R  1  **"*  '"•"■  '•"■cl'eoD." 

«oo.  is  hu„'g.y..a?d':nr;.t°:s'ua«,r"  rr"-"'- 

peased.     SnowhA^ii  î-  saiest,  until  appetite  is  an- 

set."  *^    *' 7°°"™"— '  ««  uncommonly  Sharp. 

"JhtTtÏÏ  TSX:v  ^v^''  •»  ««-ft  -  w 

But  that  »  an  o^ttiV!"".""' l»!»'  ■"  the  other  plaç. 


t4  .  _ 


|(tey^"jL..  ,^'i^'é^J6|-.Si^.«feo.iÉ,»i*-'.ù,  %^fr 


ISLE   PERDRIX, 


Ï35 


nôt  be  so  obstinate  aQother  time,  René,  but  let  peoplo 
judge  for  you  who  know  best  !"  ^ 

Snowball  is  one  of  tbat  exasperating  class  who  never 
can  let  well  enough  alone  ;  who  say,  "I  told  you  so  "  ûta 
every  occasion,  with  a  superior  look  that  makes  you  loiig 
to  commit  murder.  René  could  throw  her  over  thé  cliff 
at  the  présent  moment,  with  the  utmost  pleasure,  but 
still  she  holds  the  basket,  and  still  he  holds  his  tongue. 

"  Hand  us  those  pails,"  he  says,  gruffly,  ancj  rather 
snatc^es  them  than  otherwise.  But  there  is  oo^^fîme 
Snowball  feels  for  rebuke  ;  Johnny  is  bounding  up  the 
cliflf  in  agile  leaps. 

"Hère  is  a  place,"  says  the  small  vixen,  " perhaps 
you'll  stopbeing  sulky,  M 'sieur  René,  and  help  me  to  lay 
the  thiflgs/' 

René  obeys  în  dignified  silence,  the  twaîn  wor^  with 
a  will,  and  spread  chicken  pie,  and  pound  cake,  and  sand- 
wiches  in  a  tempting  way.  Hère  is  a  twinkling  tin  cup 
to  drink  out  of,  and  a  spring  of  ice-cold  water  bubbles 
near,  so  theirs  b  a  f east  for  the  gods. 

They  fall  to,  with  appetites  naturally  healthful,  and 
set  painfully  on  edge  by  two  hours  and  a  half  of  sait  sea 
àir, 

Lunpheon  bas  the  soothing  effect  of  clearing  the 
mocal  atmosphère — they  eat  and  drink,  and  laugh  and 
talk,  in  highést  good  humor.  Indeed,  lest  you  should 
think  too  badly  of  Mademoiselle  Snowball — that  we  hâve 
got  hold  of  a  youthful  virago  in  fact,  it  may  be  said,  that 
she  only  quarrels  with  René  on  principle,  and  for  his 
good.  She  feels  he  needs  putting  down,  and  she  puts 
him  down  accordingly.  It  ia  rather  a  motherly — a 
gras^niotherly  if  you  like— sort  of  thing.  And  she 
never  (haxdly  everjf  quarrels  with  any  one  else.  And 
-hoF  wildcst  outburst  t>f  indigoatiaa  never 4€fôt^ 


f  '-û 


been  stated,  more  than  five  minutes  at  any  one  time.  It  ia 
acoDstitut^onal  impossibility  for  Snowball  to  retain  anger. 
For  johnny — she  loves  him  and  bullies  him — is  his  chum 


ii>I 


'"  ''Vj. 


tjftfl^     -  tir-J-^  j^lkUf^  ill  ^    \  th 


^^■^  îi^j-^y^^'^i^im^^  ^.^S'^  /"^^^tf  =V*-T 


vi- 


;■/>.«: 


iz6 


ISLE    PERDRIX, 


"=^^^™3=nû^i:^^S 


'  1 


-    *"<J  cotnrade,  would  diV  f^-  u- 

equal  readinek   She  ifnever  JÎ;"*'  T  '""'  '"'^  ^«  "i* 

présent  stage  of  his  existencrh/T?    Présence.    At  the 
affection  a  little  too  Cch  fo,  h1     ^^^"  overpowering 

a.pensewita-sa.trM^-.t"firrSfrp^^^^^^ 

"P.'^°r^'n.rSJr?:l^-:f^^^^^^^ 

wbafs  the  time  ?"  ^^°^'  ^^^^  ^ave  a  watch, 

■"ind  ,.ith  -RichardThe  Third--    '"'"'  *"''  '"P^^^  "T 

Snowball    niakes    one    fl   ' 
Shakespeare,  and  hu^s  him  to  h"£  k  *^'    P°"°«^es   upon 

"Neveri"  cK«    "»^  "'"^  ^o  ner  breast. 

"Promise,"  she  exokfm!.  "  '^  l»gh-aboTe  her  head. 

""derBayChalette.    PrSVl'î  '""  «'y^»*»», 
•      "SaowbaM,  yo„  ^ouTdTrdLre  ^-'ir  ""  ""'«•" 


"2i»«i','iii  iif„éi  • . 


,  !«.-..'•%': 


,  .*^  ^^j 


r** 


ISL£    PERDRIX. 


^-■«■^■ft    »   i  V+V/'-'^J 


137 


" Chuck  it  over,  Snowball,"  he  says,  "or  make  him 
help  us— ni  baç^vou  up." 

"One  !. — two  !— ;-^"  cries  Snowball,  eyes  and  cheeks 
aglpw  with  wicked  delight.  "  If  I  say  three,  over  it  goes. 
One  !— two  ! Do  you  promise,  or " 

"  Oh,  confound  you  !  yes,  I  promise.  Give  me  my 
book  !"  says  enraged  René.  "  I  would  like  to  throw  you 
over  instead — I  wiil,  some  day,  if  you  exasperate  me  toc 
far." 

"  The  spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak.  You 
daren't,  René,  dearest,"  laughs  Snowball.  She  hands 
him  the  book  as  she  speaks,  knowing  well  he  will  not 
break  his  word. 

"  *  Come  on.  my  merry  men  ail,    ° 
We  will  to  the  greenwood  hie  1'  " 

she  sings,  gleefully,  and  snatches  up  one  of  the  tin  pails 
and  bounds  away.  ^ 

René  consigns  hi§,  cherished  volume  to  his  pocket, 
picks  up  a  tin  pail,  and  prépares  to  follow,  whea  a  cry 
from  Johnny — a  low,  hoarse,  agonized  cry — makes  him 
stop.  He  looks.  His  brother  stands,  every  trace  of  color 
fading  from  his  face,  his  gray  eyes  wide.with  dismay,  one» 
flickering  fi'nger  pointing  seaward.  René  follows  the 
finger,  and  g^zes,  and  sees — yards  away,  floating  out  with 
the  turning  tide,  farther  and  farther  every  second—- the 
Boule-tU-neige  l 

"J/((?«  Z?/>«/"  he  cries,  and  stands  stunned. 

It  is  a  moment  before  he  can  take  in  the  full  magni- 
tude of  the  disaster.  The  boat  is  gone,  past  ail  recall, 
and  they  are  hère,  lost  on  Chapeau  Dieu. 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  René  exclaims,  under  his  breath  ; 
"  Johnny,  how  is  this  ?"  * 

"I  did  notjnake  her  fast,"  Johnny  answers,  huskilyé 


fhought  TcRd,  But  it  was  a  liafd~place,  and  Snowball 
was  calling.    I  did  not  make  her  secure — and  now  sh^ 


é 


~m 


-     "^,- 


-'-^*%l 


^4;V,^r^g.^V»?f'.'-lW4^y 


is,' 


•i^ 


'  'f  ^     '  •^r^i^JJ^^t^ 


:\  ^ 


138 


CHAPEAU    DIEU. 


Lfn"''   ™^  S<^^l^-de-nei^e^,^^  I   may  never  See  her 

hî  J^t"^-  ''  f^°ï^'  ""^^^  ^^^"y'  ^"  ^'«  ^°îce-  Not  for 
himself,  in  this  first  moment,  does  he  care-not  for  the 
misfortune  that  has  corne  upon  them.  that  may  end  in 

joy  of  his  heart,  his  white  idol,  .9^«/^.y^.«^,^^ 

Rene-says  nothing  ;  he  feels  for  his  brother's  bereave- 
ment  too  «deeply,  and  consternation  is  in  his  soûl.  So 
they  stand  and  gaze,  and  farther,  and  farther,  and  farthcr 
away  with  the  swelling  tide,  floats  the  faithlcss  Bou/^-dc^ 


M'SJ 


CHAPTER  XII. 

CHAPEAU     DIEU. 

ND  it  is  ail  Snowball's  fault  !" 

It  is  René  who  speaks  the  words,  pas- 
sioiiate  anger  in  *is  voice~the  first  words 

7-^  ^^at  break   the  lohg  silence.    Far  oflf,  the 

^!r^-     .k'-   "'  -*  ^fa^te^rifting  speck,  after  which  they 

e^Ts  arfd^m.''"  ""'^'   ''^^.  ^'^  ^"  ^""^    ^«^^y'" 

^11"^  p  ^"  Snowb^IFs  fauHr  passionately  repeats 
iRene.  Far  away  and  famt,  her  sweet  slnging  reaches 
hem.  broken  now  and  then,  as  the  fruit  shf  pfcks  firt^s 
its  way  between  her  rosy  lips,  instead  of  into  the  shîning 
pail.^    The  Sound  is  to  his  wrath  as  ''vincgar  upon 

«Tt  i^  ail  her  fault    She  wotdd  come  to  Chapéan 


'^^Hj  Siic  vftfuià 

■ervcs  you  right  \    You  yieirto"hcVTn'i^^hi'nT 
Bhould  ««^  liave  let  her  force  you  to  land  hère.' 


"«ïaTïërë^firfioWfiere'â^"''^nny  it 
?    You  yield  to  her  in  evervthin*,     vL. 


;,fe.'..  .■: 


ITou 


,*" 


*.' ; 4^^mi,i^ ■  ^'".■^'«-:> r» /* ' p'^7:-^^~\^^/'J^ï-'^^,Wi-''-^M.\  .;'a^.;^^/ ';'i}^'h-':' 


j,  -Y 


CHAPEAU   DIEU. 


139 


Johnny  say^  nothing.  "His  heart  is  with  his  eyes, 
^nd  that  is  far  away  "—far  away,  to  where  Boule-de-neige^ 
beautiful,  traitorous  Boule-de-neige,  floats  out  to  the  open 
sea.  "^ 

"  She  is  a  tyrant.  Every  one  spoils  her — you  ail  do — 
papa,  Weesy,  and  you,  Johnny,  worst  of  ail.  You  Içt 
her  hâve  her  way  in  everything,  and  no  good  ever  can 
corne  of  it.  •  Now,  we  are  hère,  and  liere  we  may  remain. 
And  it  is  ail  her  doing  from  first  to  last." 

♦*  It's  no  use  talking  now,"  says  Johnny,  huskily,  "the 
bàtteau's  gone — gone  !"  ^ 

"  Yes,  I  see  it's  gone,"  bitterly,  "and  I  hear  her  sîng- 
ing  over  yonder  still  !  You  had  better  go  and  tell  her, 
and  see  if  she  will  not  change  her  tune  !" 

.  Johnify  turns  away— not  to  tell  Snowball,  howeyer. 
The  boat  is-quite  out  of  sight  now,  gone  forever  it  may 
be,  and  Johnny  feels  that  his  Aoice  is  not  to  bc  trusted, 
with  this  great  lump  rising  and  falling  in  his  throat  f    ^^ 

There  is  a  pause.  Kene  stands,  a  statue  of  angry 
grief  and  deSpair,  and  still  strains  his  eyes  over  the  blue 
shining  sea.  No  boats  are  to  be  seen  ;  far  off  on  the 
horizon  there  are  sails,  but  none  of  thèse  sails  will  cVer 
corne  near.     AU  craft  steer  wide  of  fatal  Chapeau  Dieu. 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?"  he  bursts  out  at  lenglh  ;  "  look 
herè,"  Johnny,  it's  no  tirae  to  sit  down  and  cry." 

«  l'm  .not  crying  !'*  retorts  Johnny,  angrily,  loqking 
up,  but  his  eyes  look  red  as  he  says  it,  and  his  voice 
breaks  short. 

"The  bàtteau's  gonp," .pursues  the  relentless  René, 
"  and  we  are  hère.    Now  how  are  we  to  get  off  ?" 

"  Wait  until  something  cornes  along  and  takes  us  off, 
I  suppose." 

"And  how  long  may  that  be  ?  Nothîng  ever  eomes 
"thfe  wav-^iro  one  In  iheir  sensercvef  binds  at  Needle^ 


Point.    You  know  that    Unless  a  storm  drives  a  fishijîg^. 
boat  or  a  coaster  out  of  their  course,  nothing  will  ever 
come  within  mile»  of  us:    Thea  wfaat  are  we  to  do  ?*** 


v\ 


.if'. 


.'K', 


',;î?r 


-''"<Sf 


140 


CHAPEAU    DIEU. 


/i 


island,  and  he  can't  leave  ,t  î     ?^""  ."«  «-'-«■e  on  the 

give  the  alatm.     Then  bv  „^  ''*'  to-morrow,  and 

to  start  in  the  search  h^    f"'  """^  °"«  "«y  •«  ^eady 

and  Snowblu  gle^erVwhe^  ™  "".'.^'^  '°  '""^  '  ^°» 
ti^enty  niiles-f ^We^^cuT',  "P  «"d  dow„  the  coast  for 

wiH-  thiab  of  Chlôe^u  nfj         T'^''  """-and  no  one 

been  giJa  up  t£  „?;  „V"^  f"!7  "'"^^  P'*^"  "«^ 
days  papa  will  be  b«:fc  home  "^'"^^y^-  «"d  i"  three 
will  feel  ?"  *  "•""'•    ""«^  do  you  suppose  lu 

bit  J.;r'^Ce";;;hl  bt^ï^r-'^'n  °»  «-.  -m 

a  spring.    And  it  won •»  hurT,!!  T  ?"*  '°'''  ^"^  ^"^  '' 

We  can  rough  it     But  onr  ,    k  "'^P  °°  '"«  «'•'''■■'d- 
him."  ^    "■    ""'  °"'  «ather-i»  will  about  kill 

Sno;tT're'»^t;-^^^°h„ny  pitif„„,,v.p„„,,^ 
^  Snowball  ?"  ^^  "•     ^^a'  will  become  of 

i.wi.î'rL\fr°;'-;::f  X  deserv.    ^e.  us  hop. 

this  mountain  alive     It  [s  h'^^'^'T*"^  "' "' '«»™ 

Le'  ber  take  the  coniLûenc»  -    H  "•°™  ""'  '°  '-'• 
her."  «cquences!    I.  for  one,  don't  pity 

ios,ofS«^.^:,^73-'-o:;xTtiri:'^  ^™"'-° 

tiu«^     ...r^awfunysorryyiCwh"""'"  "^'^  "^ 


yourself." 

"Well-.Ido.    I  can't  help  thinklDff  (rf 


ttjr  i"  savageTy;  «think  of 


ng  of  her,  though. 


.> 


il^^b&'^^v^<^<i&^^elj^li^|ââW!u$^.^4k>£El^^^  ».    «.      ^"v      -    "    "V-  ''  '^'-'•'>"!^M!» 


■?-.*>  ,.^--^ 


CHAPEAU    DIEU. 


141 


too.  Poor  little  thing,  how  is  she  to  sleep  on  the  turf  ? 
And  shç  is  not  strong.  And  she  never  meant  any  harm. 
Don't  be  so  hard,  old  fellow." 

The  gentle  sea-gray  eyes  look  wistf ùlly  up — the  brown, 
bright,  angry  eyes  look  down,  "  Hâve  a  little  pity,"vthe 
gray  eyes  say.  And  "  You're  a  good  fellow,  Johnny," 
the  brown  eyes  answer.  JThey  soften  ^s  they  turn  away. 
**  It's  an  awful  fix,  though  !"  he  mutters,  and  looks  sea- 
'  ward  again,  and  begins  to  whistle. 

There  is  a  stifled  sob  behind,  but  neither  hear  it 
Then,  like  a  guilty  thing,  Snowball  creeps  away.  It4s 
mot  her  woiit  to  advance  unheard — she  can  make  noise 
enough  at  any  time  for  a  dozen-r-but  the  turf  has  mufSed 
hér  steps,  and  raspberries  hâve  stopped  her  mouth.  And 
she  has  corne  upon  them,  unfelt,  unseen,  and  overheard 
ail.  AU  !  Rene's  scathing  words,  Johnny's  regretful 
pleading.  An  awful  panic  of  remorse  falls  upon  her. 
The  whole  situation  as  exposed  by  René  opens  before 
her,  and  it  is  àll  her  doing — hers — her  willfulness,  ob- 
stinacy,  selfishness,  from  first  to  last  !  They  may  perish 
hère.  And  Dr.  Macdonald  will  break  his  heart.  And 
she  is  the  cause  of  it  ail  !  She  would  corne,  she  would 
land  at  Needle's  Point,  w^here  no  boat  could  be  safcly 
moored  ;  shè  would  call  to  Johnny  to  hurry  !  René  is 
right— it  is  ail  her  faull,  from  beginning  to  end. 

She  flings  herself  o'fi  the  jç^round,  and  buries  her 
wicked  face  in  the  grass.  Ail  the  misdeedsof  her  life— ^ 
neither  few  nor  far  between — rise  up  before  her  in  re- 
morseful  array,  but  pale  into  insignificance  before  this 
crowning  crime.  She  lies  prone,  bedewing  the  dry  ferns 
with  her  despairing  tears,  and  so,  hàlf  an  hour  after, 
when  he  quits  his  brother,  Johnny  finds  her.  He  looks 
at  her  ruefuUy  and  uncomfortably — even  at  fourteen  he 
has  a  genuijie  masculine  horror  of  crying-^nd  touches 
hei  up  gently  with  tb,e  toe  of  his  shoè. 

♦*  I  say,"  he  say  s,  with  an  attempt  at  gruffness,  "stop 
Ihat^  will  you  !"  . 


?^^^4.%#^^^fa.4 


i-^ 


/ 


^  < 


?*««»n 


'^tf-yr^^'*^--. 


143 


CHAPEAU   DIEU. 


Two  lovely  blue,  shining  eyes  look  up  at  him,  pathetic 
with  heart-broken  (Jespair. 

"  Oh,  Johnny  !"  she  cries  out  in  angnished  tones. 
Johnny  has  nothing  to  say  to  this  ;  indeed,  the  situa- 
tion quitegoes  without  sayirig.  He  stands  gnawing  a 
mspberry  branch,  and  looking  still  more  uncomfor'table. 
But  Snowball  must  talk-if  death  were  the  penalty 
Snowball  would  talk  ;  talking  is  her  forte,  and  she  has 
been  silent  now  for  over  an  hour.  So  she  sits  up,  wipes 
her  eyes,  sobs  a  last  sob,  and  looks  at  him  solemnly. 
Johnny!"  ^       ^ 

"Yes."  ,  . 

"  This  is  awful,  isn't  it  ?" 
~l  P^'etty  awful,"  dismally  ;  "  the  batteau's  gone." 
JNever  mind  ;  she  ,won't  go  far--somebody  will  pick 

ri/hî*^'  T  v.''^'^  .^''^  ^'''''^^  '^^  ^<^-^-neige.    She's  ail 
ngùt    Johnny  !  '  ,     # 

"Yes."  -  , 

"René  feels  awfully,  don't  he  ?" 

*'Pretty  awfully.     So  do  I." 

"  But  it  isn't  so  bad  as  he  makes  out.  If  there  is  any 
chance  of  seeing  the  blackest  side  of  tWngs  "-the  innate 
spirit  of  contrariety  rising  at  the  bare  mention  of  Rene's 
name—  he  is  sure  to  see  it     It  isn't  half  so  bad  " 

"I  hope  not,  l'm  sure,"  still  dismally;  "it's  bad 
enough,  I  reckon.  We've  got  tQ  atay  hcre  ail  night. 
Whatdoyoucallthat?"  ^ 


"Oh!— one    night— that    makes    nothingJ"   loftily. 
11  be  taken  oflf  to-morrow.    I  am^ure  of  it" 


"■ç- 


**  And  we  wi 

I  wish  I  was,  by  George  I  I  ain't,  though.  And 
papa  will  be  home  in  a  day  or  two.  That  is  what  René 
—both  of  us— feel  bad  about." 

"  And  don't  yo^  think  I  do  ?"  indignantly-"  would  I 
mean,  only  I  am  certain  wewill  be  s^e  home  long  befortt 
Jie^^me^-Now^lookrliere.    MaW  Weesy  wîll  Siss  ^T 
won  t  she,  and  be  so  sçared  she  won't  be  able  to  sieep  a 
wmk  ail  night  l"    ^ 


rjTK 


CHAPEAU 


DIEU, 


»45 


V 


"  l(>,dare  say." 

"  l|i^n  to-morrôw  morning,  the  first  thing,  she  will 
i:oiit  ôwt  old  Tim,  and  make  him  row  her  over  to  St.  Gil- 
das»    I)o  you  know  who  will  be  the  lirst  person  she  will 
gaifo  see  theré ?" 
,     fNo^Idon't." 

itYou  might,  then,  if  you  èver  thought  at  ail.  She 
wilî  go  to  Père  Louis.  She  goes  to  him  first  in  e^ery 
wotry  she  has.  And  you  know  what  he  is,  Old  Tim  may 
take  it  easy,  and  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet,  but 
Fère  Louis  won't.    He'll  never  rest  until  wè're  founjl*" 

"By  George  !"  says  Johnny,  brightening. 

"He'll  move  heaven  and  earth  to  find  us,"  pursues^ 
Snowball,  more  and  more  excited,  "and  there  isn't  a 
man  in  St.  Gildas  isn't  ready  to  fly,  if  ï^ère  Louis  but 
holds  up  his  finger.    You  know  that    And  besides " 

"Well?"     ' 

"  I  told  Innocente  Desereaux  only  yesterday  we  were 
coming  to  Chapeau  Dieu  for  raspberries  this  week.  \ 
wanted  her  to  corne,  but  she  couldn't,  René  saya  It 
shows  ail  he  knows  about  it  !"  resentfully.  "  They'U 
never  think  of  Chapeau  Dieu  !  Don't  you  suppose  Inno 
will  hear  of  our  being  missing,  and  will  tell  what  I  said  ? 
And  tlien  won't  tl^y  corne  straight  hère  and  take  us  off  ? 
René  indeed  !  he  thinks  he  knows  everjrthing  I  He  isn't 
so  much  wiser  than  other  people,  after  ail,  in  spite  of 
•his  big  books !" 

"  You  had  bettcr  go  and  tell  him  s6,"  says  Johnny, 
•with  a  grimace  of  delight^ 

He  has  qnite  comï^er  to  Snowball's  view  of  the 
question,  and  his  «plrits  rise  proportionately. 

"  I  would  in  a  minute,"  retorts  Snowball,  with  fine 
défiance. 

She  does  not,  howevei  ;  she  glances  over  jtt  him,  and^ 


n 


.    (■ 


"lier  courage,  like  Bob  Acres',  oozes  out  at  the  palras  of 
her  hands.  Truth  to  tell,  he  does  lodk  rather  unap- 
proachable,  sytanding  slim,  and  straight,  and  dark,  with 


y  ^lit", 


'•/ 


.»    i»!  „ 


^C-^- 


I 


'"a^ataojj^:)^ 


P. 


M 


JAHKb 


.r  -^ 


"v^- 


■,.*^(|;fi,-^..__.aj.sî^»7   • 


X44 


CHAPEAU    DIEU. 


folded  arms,  his  back  against  a  rock,  his  pale,  rather 
stern  face  set  seaward. 

"How  will  you  stoiv  yourself  for  the  night?"  asks 
Johnny,  after  apause.  ' 

"  Oh,  anyvvhere— it  doesn't  matter.  I  will  lie  under 
those  bushes  on  the  moss— it  is  soft  and  dry.  Besides  I 
'  don't  expect  to  sleep.  Johnny,  if  René  wasn't  so 
grumpy,  I  would  enjoy  this." 

"  Would.you,  by  George  ?" 

««•/"t^"^  ^''^"''  ^^®  Snowball,  with  some  resentment, 
if  I  ve  heard  you  say  c^ce  l've  heard  you  ten  hundred 
thousand  times  say  you-^envied  Robinson  Cnisoe— that  4 
you  would  fairly  love  td  be  wrecked  on  a  désert  island. 
And  now-isn't  thls  as  good  as  any  désert  island.  only 
well  get  taken  off  sooaer.  and  you  don't  look  pleased 
one  bit  !     You  look  as.  sulky  as  sulky." 

"It's  not  half  as  good  as  Crusoe's  island,"  says 
Johnny;  «we  hâve  nothing  to  eat  but  raspberries,  and 
a  fellow  gets  tired  of  raspberries  as  a  steady  diet.     He 

had  goats,  and^grapes,  and  Friday " 

"He  didn't  eat  Friday.  I,"  smilîng  radiantly,  "will 
be  your  Friday,  Johnny." 

"  And  savages -" 

"René  will  do  for  the  savages.  And  talking  of  cat- 
ing  — bnskly— «we  hâve  enough  left  in  the  basket  for 
supper.  Suppose  we  hâve  supper,  Johnny?  It  must 
be  SIX  o'clock,  and  eating  will  be  better  than  doinjr 
nothing."  * 

"  Ail  right,"  responds  Johnny,  who  is  alway^pen  to 
anything  in  this  line  ;  "  fix  things,  and  l'il  go  and  tell 
René." 

He  tells  René  ail  Snowball  has  told  hîm,  ending  with 
a  fraternal  invitation  as  sent  by  Éhat  young  person  to 
come  to  supper. 


îeit 


*ïerTo  earit1ïeRëir,^sap^îrén^  sITo^^^^^ 
don't  want  any  of  her  supper.     And  you'  had  better  not 
take  much  either,  Johnny;    pick  bernes   if  you   tôt 


«ié-7 


'■'^z'^^""*-'^  ': 


'P    " 


»  ^nv        *»('v*''' 


■  ff'^g^T^"'  .f™>->^T'»»*f*^    -^      "-3 


le,  rather 

ht?"  asks 

lie  under 
Besides,  I 
veasn't  so 


sentment, 
hundred 
soe — that 
rt  island. 
ind,  on|y 
:  pleased 

id,"  says 
ries,  and 
liet.    He 

ly,  "will 


î  of  eat- 
sket  for 
It  must 
n  doing 

ppen  to 
and  tell 

ng  with 
:rson  to 

rtfyTT 
tter  not 
ou   are 


*.,    ..fi,:>m 


CHAPEAU    DIEU. 


"5  T   ' 


M5 


^/j» 


hungry.  Snowball  may  be  glad  of  the  leayings  of  hôr 
luncheon  before  we  get  ofï  y  et." 

"Why?    Don't  you  believe  what  she  says  !"    *      v 

"  I  believe  she  beiieves  it  I  hâve  not  much  faith  in 
Snowball's  rosy  prédictions." 

"But  it  seems  likely  cnough,"  says  the  perplcxed 
Jdhnny.  Père  Louis  u/zV/search  for  us  high  and  low, 
and " 

"  Ay,  if  Père  Louis  is  at  home.    Half  the  4me,  as 
I  you    know,   he  is  away  on  missions  in  the'^outlying 
r  patishes.    And  July  and  August  are  his  mission  mond^. 
ï  àm  positive  he  is  not  in  town."  < 

«  Johqny  stands  blankly,  his  new-bom  hopes  knocked 
from'tjtider  him  at  one  fell  blow.  To  Père  Louis  ail 
things  are  possible — wanting  him,  Ma'am  Weesy  and 
old  Tim,  the  light-house  keeper,  are  but  rickety  reeds. 

"  For  %hich  reason,"  continues  René,  the  ^lentless, 
"you  had  better  tell  Snowball  to  keep  the  contents  pf 
the  basket  for  herself.'  /  want  noue  of  it,  at  least." 
'  The  dusk  face,  fine  as  a  cameo,  looks  at  this  moment 
as  if  eut  in  adamant.  Snowball  glancing  across,  Jthinks 
she  has  never  before  seen  René  look  so  hatefuUy  cross. 

There  is  a  loiig  pause  ;  the  brothers  stand  and  gaze 
far  aûd  vainly  pver  the  sea,  Johnny  with  the  old  patient, 
wistful  light  in  his  most  beautiful  eyes,  René  ^  with 
knitted  brows,  and  dark,  stern,  resolute  gaze. 

"It's  an  awful  go  !"  says  Johnny,  at  last,  under  his 
breath.  "I  wish  you  wouldn'tbe  so  tremendously  hard 
on  Snowball,  though.  She  couldn't  help  it.  It  isn't  fair, 
by  George  !  You  make  the  poor  littl>e  thing  feel  misér- 
able, René.  She  was  crying  her  eyes,  oui  a  little^while 
ago. 

"  JL,et  her  cry  !'*  savagely. 

"vShe  heard  every  word  jrou  said."  ' 


"  Let  her  hear  !  Too  much  of  her  own  way  will  be 
the  min  of  that  girl.  She  is'spoiledJiy  over-indulgence. 
You  ail  pet  her — I  dmll  not** 


m 


/ 


-1 

4 


K 


A' 


r  t' 


it-^i  a^W.i.f*^''  .t»-*^ 


\ 


146 


■•\ 


•!  ''" 


CHAPEAU    DIEU. 


"  No/' says  Johnny,  turning  away,  «you  wiU  ncver 
spoil  anybody  ,n  that  way,  I  think.  What  a  fellpw  you 
are,  René— as  hard  as  nails."  " 

With  which  he  goes  back,  with  lagging  steps,  his 
newly-ht  hopes  ruthlessly  snuflfed  out.  He  feels  himself 
iji  sort  of  shuttJecock  between  thèse  two  belligerent  bat- 
tledoors,  and  would  lose  his  temper  if  he  knew  how 
Fortunately,  John  Macdonaldout  of  temper  is  a  sight  no 
mortal  eye  has  ever  yet  seen-so  he  only  looks  a  trifle 

îîV  n  »T  "  '  *^  ^"^  '■^'"'■"^  ^°  Snowball  now. 
Well,    that^small  maiden  deipands,  imperiouslv.  «  he 
wouldn't  corne  ?"  ^* 

"No,"  slowly,  "he  wouldn't  corne." 

"  Of  course  he  wouldn't  !"  in  a  rising  key  :  "  ifs  ex- 
actly  hke  him.  I  think  if  René  ever  does  a  good-natur«i 
thing  the  novelty  will  be  the  death  of  him:  Now  whv 
wouldn't  he  corne?"         *  /^ow,  wny 

«Oh~he  says  he's  ;iot  hungiy.  He  says  to  eat  it 
yourself.  .Now,  Snowball,  don^t  nag-Fve  h/d  enough  of 
it~let  a  fellow  havfe^some  peace,  can't  you.  /haven't 
donc  anything." 

«  What  else  does  he  say  ?"  with  pursed-up  lips  and 
bnghtening  eyes.  f     v      ^^ 

n,  "  "!  f^u  '^^'  ?^-^  ^°"^'  '^  ^^*y  ^°  missions,  and 
may  not  be  home  when  Weesy  gets  tbere.  He  says  you'U 
be  hungry  enough  to  want  that  cake  you're  crumbling 
allto  pièces,  maybe,  before  yoii  get  another,"  >* 

«  Havç  one,  Johnny  ?"-says  Snowball,  politely,  tcôSr- 
ingoneofthosec<»#ections.  } 

But  Johnny  shakes  his  head  gloomily,  and  déclines. 
Keep  u  for  yourself.    He  won't  touch  anything  but 

K!r^%Mf  J^y^:-"*»  «^^'•e  will  I.    Eat  it  yourself-<,r 
better  still,  keep  u  for  yoi^r  breakfast  to-morrow."  , 

Without  a  Word,  mademoiselle  puts  back  cakei  pie. 
sandwichcs,  etcetera.  in  thr  hn^lrcV^overs  tfaei»  WK    ^ 
Mons  with  exaggerated  care,  then  sits  down  a  lit|£  way    ^ 
ofiF.  her  sailor  hat  tilted  welI  ovcr  her  nose,  Whandf 


CHAPEAU  DIEU, 


HT 


folded  in  her  lap.  So  she  sits  for  a  long  tinie,  Johnny^ 
extended  in  a  melancholy  attitude  on  the  grass  near  by. 
So  long  she  sks  indeed,  that  his  suspicions  are  awakened  ; 
he  rises  on  his  elbow  and  peers  under  the  hat.  Big,  silent 
tears  are  raining  down — big,  clear,  globular  drops,  chas- 
ing  each  other,  and  falling  almost  with  a  plash! — they 
look  large  enough— on  the  folded  hands. 

"  Hallo  !"  cries  Master  John,  taken  aback,  "you  ain't 
at  it  again,  are  you.    What  is  there  Ko  cry  for  now  ?" 

Silence — deeper  sobs— bigger  tears.   's^ 
>     "iSay— sicàn't  you,"  fretfuUy.    "L^ish  you  wouldn't 
You;  never  used  to  be  a  cry-baby,  Snowball.     Stop  it, 
can't  you.    What's  the  matter  tunb  f" 

"  Johnny  H&  ^reat  sob.     "  Jo-ohn-ny  !"  another. 

"  Yes,"  says  Jphnny,  "  ail  right.     What  ?" 

"  Jo-ohnny  I— I  Aafg  René  !" 

The  vindictive  emphasis  with  Which  this  is  brought 
out,  staggers  paciOc  Johnny.    There  is  a  pause. 

"Oh!  I  say.  You  mustn^,  you  know.  Notthat 
there  is  any  love  lost,"  sofio  voce. 

"  I — I,"  increase  of  sobbtng,  "I  always  ^|af  hâte  him. 
I  always  shall.  I  iPOuld  like  to  gét  à  boàt,  ànd  go  away, 
and  leave  him  hère  forever,  and  ever,  and  everj" 

"  By  George  !"  And  then,  ail  at  once,  Johnny  throws 
himself  back  on  thê  furze,  and  laughs  long  and  loudly. 

"So,"  he  gasps,  "  it  is  crying  with  rage  you  are,  aitél' 
ail.  Wasn't  it  Dr.  Johnson  who  liked  a  gocwi  hâter  ?  H<p 
ought  to  hâve  known  Snoi^oall  Macdonald.^  ,'  ' 

"  My  name  isn't  Macdonald  ;  I  wouldn't  hâve  a  name 
he  " — ^ferociously  pointing — "  bas  !  If  ever  I  get  oflE  this 
horrid,  abominable  place.  Jfohnny,  do  yoa  kjdow  what  I 
mean  to  do  ?"  "    "^    ~ , 

"  Not  at  présent,"  retums  Johnny,  who  is^mensely 
amused.     "  Something  tremendous,  I  guess.  ^faat  X[ 

"1  roéan  to  writè  Ib  Tïn  F^^  Monsîéur*t*âÏÏÎ7 

corne  and  take  me  aw^^r.    I  belong  to  him— fie  broughi 
|àe  hère»    I  wish  he  hadn't  now.    Anywherè  vrouid 


jT^ÏÏ 


'■Jàm^Êiàh  iiiuèfi.v'TsèilH^A  ià>%iKi«! 


4 


%# 


.148 


'  :  ~7j*-i^^i  f'Kri  lyief 


f^'^-^^ 


.r' 


*<^A 


CHAPEAU   DIEU, 


,  J"sc  nere,  with  his  customary  ffrin  «What  *f/^,^^?"     a   !, 

papa  and  you,  Johnny.  and  even  old  Weesy  7nd  lîm 
aud  Père  Loui^  and  Mère  Maddelena,  Su"  lla^ 
and  Innocente  Desereaux,  'and »  «gnatia, 

ubul  ™tdtSt^{';:rna^e  "aïth:-'"'  ,""  '°°''  '»<• 

knl^"?""^*""  """"'tt^^'^g  to  him-not  really  you 
know.    ID  point  of  factfold  eiri  "  savs  Ichn^r     •? 
sweetly  „pon  her,  "y-^Wion/s^™  rM^^^Xon? 

for  li^e  on  Isle  Perdrix   lik^  oM   x-  i    ?  ^""'"""^ 

ever^ndirr.        ^     r"'*"^  can't  go  on  liVing  for- 
i»hip,  1 11  take  you  w,th  me  as  cook.    You  aki't  hatf  î    " 


^$m 


■'■'Vl^ 


VBAFEAU    DIEU. 


149 


bad  cook,  Snowball— your  apple-dumplinga  are  'things 
to  dream  of.'     I  wîsh  I  had  a  few  now." 

"  Are  you  hungry,  J[ohn  ny  ?"  eagerly.  "  If  you  are-^ — " 
Her  hand  is  in  the  basket  in  a  momeht. 

"  l'm  not  hungry  for  anylhing  you  hâve  there.  No, 
thanks,  I  won't  take  it.  You  will  keep  ail  that  for  your- 
self,  as  René  says." 

4  "  Johnny," — ^^in  a  drooping  voice— "  please  don't  men- 
tion René.  I  can't  bear  the  sound  of  his  name.  Oh, 
dear  me  !" — a  deep,  deep,  deep  sigh — "  I  don*t  see  why 
some  people  ever  were  born  !"  "" 

"  Wbat  shall  I  be  at  fifty, 

Should  nature  keep  me  alive, 
«  If  I  find  the  world  so  weary     * 

When  I  am  but  twent]rfiTe  ?"    ^^ 

"  • 

chants  Johnny,  and  laughs.  It  is  a  physical  impossibil- 
ity  for  this  boy  to  remain  despondent.  After  a  fashion, 
he  is  trying  to  enjoy  bein^  "shipwrecked  on  the  top  of 
this  big,  bare  mountain.  René  glances  round  in  wonder 
at  the  singing  and  laughing. 

"Would  anything  make  thèse  two  serions  for  five 
minutes  ?"  he  thinks,  with  a  contemptuous  shrug. 
"  Singing]  and  they  may  never  leave  this  hideous  désert 
alive." 

"  Let  us  sing  some  more,"  says  Snowball,  waking  up 
promptly  to  badness.  "  René  Ipoks  as  if  he  didn't  like 
it.     Let  us  sing — let  us  sing  the  evening  hymn." 

"Pious  thought — let  us,"  laughs  Johnny.  And  so  to 
aggravate  further  the  dark  and  silent  M.  René,  thèse  two 
uplift  their  f resh  young  voices,  and  send  them  in  unison 
over  the  darkening  waters. 

^^AvtStunetîùtmat 
Weliftoo^MMlstotliM,  / 


M. 


Tis  nigfatfall  cm  the  wftl 
Watch  lu  wbile  ehadowi  lia* 

Far  o'er  the  water  tpread  ; 
Hear  the  heart'a  loaety 

Ttaiae,'xK>,hatbbl0d." 


Vv 


>û^      ;;'•'' 


û 


-h-\ 


i 


L-^-a 


'   ^^  a 


î*.  I 


>A      î*  . 


'irV     !fc«>i.>i     a,fe«fJ', 


if 


'V.' 


150 


CHAPEAU   DIEU, 


Snowball  glances  at  her  foc.     He  stands  and  make* 
no  sign,  and  his  dark  thoughtfui  face  is  turned  awa7^^ 

■ 

The  waves  must  rock  our  sleep  ; 

Ora,  Mater,  ora^ 
Star  of  the  deep  !"  > 

Sav  Chlf '.r"  ^''  ^^PP"*"  '^"^  ^^"^«  ^°'«  'h«  ^«^^ers  of 

^«ay  Chalette,  and  gone  down-the  long,  star-lit  northern 

twihght  is  paling  to  dull  dmb.    The  evf ^ing  w  ndTomes 

br^r   f  ''^'''"^  °f  ''^  "^^^  ^^-'-  -^"-u 

_^- And  you  hâve  no  wrap,"  says  Johnny,  compassion- 
ately.  Snowball  has  shivered  involuntarily  in  her  tWn 
dress^an^  he  sees  it.  He  i,  in  blue  flâner  hLself,  and  is 
the  best  provided  of  the  three,  René  being  clad  ii  white 
hnen  which  he  greatly^flfects  in  summer  dme 

mind  L"''"'^  "^"'''"  ^°'*''*'*"    *°'^""-      "Never 
But  her  voice  sounds  weary,  and  sfib  leans  spirit- 

«  Sunnol  '^'"r  '  '!;'  '""^'  "^'^  ^^  ^  ^'^  '^"'«'•^k. 
buppose  you'he  down,  and  take  a  nap  "  su^iresta 
Johnny,  J  will  rest  you,  and  it's  of  no  usfsitdnfup 
We  re  ,n  for  it  f o-night,  anyhow-bétter  luck  to-mofrow 
I  U  fix  you  a  bed  before  it  gets  any  darker.'V 

Butthereisn^ingmuchto"fix,"ashefinds.  There 
is  only  the  dry,  rough  furze,  and  long  marsh  grass  and 
hard  penitential  branches  of  spruce  and  cedfr.  Wkh 
thèse  he  does  the  best  he  can;*^he  piles  up  the  fmie 
«trews  it  with  the  long  tough  gn.ss.  twisfs  the  S 
spruce  branches  into  a  sort  of  arbor,  and  the  best  he  can 


"There  yôu  are,"  he  says,  «tWëTa  bed  and  b^^rd" 
for  you.    Rosamond's  Bower-Boffin's  Bower-not  to  be 
,  named  m  the  same  day.    Tum  in,  and  don't  opcn  your 


i.^;-'^' 


^^ji^^^%va/.4  1 


lîfcH.iWi  J 


4s< 


CHAPEAU   DIEU. 


iSi 


peepers  till  to-raorrow  mornîng.     Let  us  hope  it  will  be  . 
your  last,»  as  well  as  your  first  night,  camping  out.  ^  l'il 
go  and  shake  up  René,  before  he  is  transmogrified  into 
the  rock  against  which  he  bas  leaned  so  long.    Good- 
night,  young  'un  !" 

"Good-night,  Johnny,"  responds    Snowball    falter- 

ingly. 

She  is  afraid,  but  she  would  die  rather  than  say  so. 
Afraid  of  snakes,  of  bears,  of  ghosts,  of  the  wind  in  the 
tree-tops,  the  sound  of  the  sea,  the  awful  silence,  aud 
loneliness,  and  majesty  of  night. 

She  creeps  inro  her  bower,  but  sits  peering  out— such 
a  pale,  anx^us,  pretty  little  iface,  in  the  dim  starlight. 

SyttU  see  the  boys  standing  together,  and  still  ever 
gaziiÉHpit  the  bay. 

"wSrkene  ever  stir  ?"  she  thinks.  "  He  looks  as  if 
he  could  stand  there  forever.  And  ^low  cross  he  di4 
look.    I— wish— I— hadn't  madc  René  mad  !" 

The  admission  cornes  reluctantly— even  in  her  own 
mind,  but  having  made  it,  she  is  disposed  to  descend  to 
stiil  deeper  depths  of  the  valley  of  humiliation. 

«  It  is  ail  my  fault— René  is  right— it  is  always  my 
fault  !  I  must  be  horrid.  I  wond^r  everybody  don't 
,„  hâte  me  as  well  as  him.  Maybe  theyKlo,  only  they  don't 
like  to  show  it  Yes,  I  always  do  want  my  own  way,  and 
raake  a  time  if  I  don't  get  it.  I  give  Johnny  no  peacc 
of  his  life.  I  fight  with  René  from  moming  till  night. 
And  ï  don't  belong  to  anybody— I  suppose  I  am  too  hatc- 
ful  even  for  that  !  I  wonder>^fhy  I  ever  was  bom— l 
wonder  if  I  will  always  be  horrid  as  long  as  I  live  !  I 
wonder,"  draggingly,  "  if— René— would  forgi^e  me,  if 
—I  begged  his  pardon,  and  promised  never  to  do  it  any 

more?'' 
-Th»*JU''i»^ratheirvague,-butin  Snowball's  pénitent. 

mind,  it  stands  îor  ail  the  enormitics  of  her  life,  too 

many  to  be  particularized,  so  she  " lumps."  them  I    The 


& 


^       » 


j. 
,» 


y.» 


CffAPJËAfi   niEU. 


broihers  ïpeantime  stanrf  CîX  *i,  . 

for  5elow.    René  is  ^^  nâfeTr^lTl"' V""'='^°  »•"* 
„^  "  Vou  look  „.ed  u'TlS^oM  .L^i-Î."/ '•"«'  ''»- 
take  a  snooze  whv  ^«r.v  -        P'    Johnny  says  • 

with  the  n.or„i„gr^^^^? '°r.»  "'f''  *"'  W  cometh 

,  '■"'on  on  ie.o.d^^a^'lVreeTûpf^-'---''''^  »■-«"■ 

nie,  Johnny  !»  »"i"oauy,    it  is  that  that  worrics 

"Oh!  we  will^never  fea»-     w- 

fellow,  and  let  us  tr^  to  f or^e^u    a'I  ?    ,  ^'^^  ^  «^^'^^ 
duse!"  *"rgecit.  vm  as  sleepy  as  the 

Hasshehadanythingtoeatr 

war  yo„  take  it    Now^ri,  "*•''"  y°"'  »•»«  «" 
It  doesn-t"  ^^  "8»'°  ««Tes  her  righti . 

eat  what  there  is  left  to-mor^r  J  T^^  '"^  ^^«  °»"st 


-  That  means  until  we  are  taken  off  I 


Of  course  we 


>liv 


^i*< 


■  !»  -c^^ai^L. 


f  \' 


'f,r. 


,.»'», ;!*,«,  .^jf^n 


CHAPEAU    DÏEU. 


>S3 


-^ill,"  says  hopeful  Johnny  ;  "  now  lot  us  t;tirn  in  and  go 
tosleeiJ."  '  «  .  V 

"Turnin-^hçi-e?"  V  * 

"Oh,  anywhere.     You  pays  your  money,  and  you 
takes  your  choice.    AÏÏ  the  beds  in  Ùlq*  hôtel  de  la  belle 
^étoile*  are  at  our  service.     Hère  is  mine.    A  demain; 
good-night." 

"  Gôod-night,"  responds  René,  and  looks  at  hisbrother 
almost  in  envy. 

Johnny  has  thrown  himself  down  just  where  he  stoo^ 
and  in  less  than  a  minute  seeras  to  be  sound  asleep.   But. 
it  is  along  time  before  ,<Re"nç  follows  ;  he  sits  there  be- 
side  his  big  rock,  his  ,fàce  still  faithfully  turned  seaward, . 
his  head  resting  agàinst  its  mossy  side,  his  eyes  closed. 

The  night  is  far  advanced  ;  it  is  long  past  midnight, 
indeed,  and  he  is  half  asleëp,  half  awake,  when  a  light 
Chili  touch  falls  on  his  hand,  and  awakes  him  with  a 
great  nervous  start.  À  slim  figure,  with  loosely  blowiog 
hair,  pale,  pleading  face  and  pathetiç  eyes  stands  by  his 
side.. 

^*Rene!"~a   pause— "  René  l"  tremulôusly. 
René!  fdlrgive  me." 

"  Snowball  !  You  !.   I  thought  you  were  asleep  hours  . 
ago."  "  •         ,     . 

"I  could  not  sleep,  René!    \  am  sorry!"-— a  sup- 
pressed  sob.     *'I  knôw  l'm  horrid.     I  don't  wonde;-  you 
hâte  me.    It  does  serve  me.right;,  '  Nothingis  too  bad  to, . 
happen  to  me  !    It's  ail  my  fâult.    I— I— l'm  awfully 
sorry,  René  !"  y  .  • 

"Sndleball ."     ,  , 

,;  "  I  want  you  to  forgive  me,"  in.  à  sobbing  whispen 
"Oh !  René,  don't  be mad  !  ^  I— I— can't help being ii^t^ 
fui,  but  V\\  try.  Oh  !  I  mçan  to  try  e^r  so  Jiard  after 
thjg.    ru  never  contradi^t  you  again  ! 


"Aatr 


thing  you  say  ! .  Only  I  can't  bear  you  to  be  ànç^ry  wiih 
Tûc"  (gfreat  sobbing  hère,  sternly  repressed,  for  slumber- 
,ing  Johnny's  sake).    "  Oh  !  René,  forgive  me  !" 

4  .       1*  •-.*       ' 


Jflt 


'^   M'    t 


1  ,  •■'■r"»   ~."^-^.a 


pi'. 


S. 


"ÎT^W^v  "'''■'''  ■'"'7tS?'"**%^5^ 


>S4 


'  j.'  ^ 


*'f^-'t^ 


CBAPEAO   msu 


"§nowbàllI  rou.dearJittlesouH". 
r  And  ail  in  a  moment,  èbdurate  René  melts,  and  diUs  hi. 
.^aroundher,andgiveshera,hea,ty,fo,^iv.4   me^^ 

,    nwHfe.    "'^■"PS'hehonr.the  scène,  theloneliness-hive 
Sspwball  s  iwrs  :  she  j««s  her  arms  around  hUn^k 

S    in'Tj^fP  l^""»*^    Conducts  herselftgen- 

mm.Jh -.f  '.  ^  j  ^1°    ^^   '«0''««-   René  has  had 
«o^h  o(  .^  and  radier  lifu  his  lovely  burden  off  his 

ngnt,  Ijn  not  angiy.     I  don't  know  that  it  was  vour 
faul^  much,  a^ter  .11.    Go  back,  and  by  ,o  step     You'U 

„,„*■;?  """  »  «»e  "dead  waste  and  middle  of  the 
"feht,  peace  Is  prqclaimed,  and  next  moraing,  ,6  hi' 
^«tamazement,  JoÛ»y finds the twain he  has  & mo" 
talfoes  thenigbt  befoje.  excellent  friends  in  th^môrn- 

r^^^hr^rtith^t,  t°c:stoS 

'wJS!!flî  "'.?  J";."^,  '"*''  «°  ""«"«»  î"  <*«  îs  beginning 
vehemently,  "/  shan't  touch  them  1"  ^ 

René  looks  at  her. 

"U  «his  your  promise  of  last  nightr  the  severe 
ï^ngeyesdemand.  And  mademoiselfe-s.he^  d^';7 
Wn"  ^\«°^  »«o  the  basket,  and  she  swallowH 
lump  ,n  her  throat,  and-the  last  of  the  sandwiche,^ 

Th«  monjing  ta  fine    promiser-tôëqnaryéâerday  in  •- 
sunshme  and  warmth,  and  keeps  its  promise     ButU   s 
.  long  day-a  long,  long,  weary  day.    They  lie  aboùî 


'^'^tSiStr^if 


i 


FOUR    DAYS. 


l    \  j.tf>-.S"- 


ftjr^ 


\     ■- 

\ 


«e  ^  V 


«55 


►'iJ'^'W 


listl^ssly,  pick  berries,  talk  in  a  perfunctory  fashion  ; 
«ve^  Snowball's  fine  flow  of  tittle-tattle  fla^s.    René 
reads  ;  Johnny  tries  to  rig  a  fisbing-line  and  catch  scmie' 
thing,  but  fails.    He  reclines  at  Snowball's  feet  mostiy,x 
and  lets  her  tell  him  stories — sea  stories,  if  she  knows 
any.    Ail  her  life,  she  bas  been  an  omnivorous  reader, 
devoiiring  everything  that  bas  coine  in  her  way.    Her 
répertoire,  theref ore,  is  considérable.    She  sings  to  him, 
too.    Johnny  always  likes  to'hear  her  Singl    She  fèels  it 
a  point  of  honof  to  keep  her  boys'  spirits  vp,    It  is  ^  ' 
her  fault,  but  they  are  hère  ;  that  fact  keeps  well  upper- 
most  in  her  mind,  and  she  does  her  poor  little  best.    It 
is  easy  enough  with  Johnny,  who  is  cheery  and  sanguine 
by  nature;  but  René  looks  sb  pale,  so  troubled,  sits  so 
sileùt,  so  grave,  it  is  depressing  only  to  look  at  him. 

The  long  day  wears  on.  Afternûon  cornes,  and  even- 
ing,  and  night,  and  ^11  no  boat,  no  rescue.  Still  noth- 
img  but  the  hoUow,  monotonous  moan  of  the  âea,  the 
whistling  of  the  wind,  the  whispering  of  the  branches, 
the  white  flash  of  a  sea-guU's  wing,  the  cil-cling  swoop 
of  a  fish-hawk— and  far  off,  far,  far  off,  white  sails,  that 
never  draw  near. 

The  stars  shine  out,  a  little,  slim  new  moon  cuts 
sharply  and  cleanly  the  blue  waste  of  sk^;  and  a  second 
night  finds  thesô^  castaway  mariners  high  and  dry  on  top, 
of  Chapeau  Dieu. 


KJ> 


CHAPTER   XIII, 
FOUR  DAYS. 


night,  ançther  dawn,  another  day-— 
hird  time.  and  still  the  lost  ones  ara 


NOTHER 
night,  a  third  time, 
lost  in  the  wlld  moùntain  side  ! 

With  the  breakitig  of  the  third  day^  therè 
breaks,  alsc^^âp^^ne  #èather  that  up  to  this  time  bas 


■  ^  .»,*>■"■ 


■M    *  - 


|./. 


«»v. 


'56 


>! 


-«^  them.    This  third  <by  dawns  ;rh..iJP'^.  ' 

.    dead  calm  holds  land  «nH  f     f  .  ""^T»™''  «he  water,  a 
The  beat  isïntolerabr  A^  r""'?  '"  »■' "«ntaou,  h„âh. 

surely,  the  whole  S  skv  ^^  advances,  and  slowly, 

«  seems,  at  once.    Sea-birds  Wh^      >       * '"""P"^ 
sails,  hnH  down  on  ^h^^     )\  ""'  '"«""•  "We 

top.    AU  naturet '"SiriThV"/'''""  the  mounuin  ' 
.  meet  the  comi^g  stom.        *^  ^''  ^°'^  '°  •""'  °"t,  and 

ttat4rbet?t.e'Tw^S,^r  l'-S»"  «ttle  change 

TheyhavedareS^II-Utdîirhf"''^'™"'^ 

,  »d  night  nothing  more^cUW  ,t°^  ""T"  """'"K 

wd  reading  ShakesMa^^  ^  raspberry  pidting 

wUdanimalMore^L^^°"f  "PP-^"-  there  are  nb 

and  grassbopperlno  «v?^     ^f^'''  "^  «arter  snakes 

.  «^-otleava^^h^^'^.Vk^^^^  And  U.éy 

on  all.the  mountain;  theTeâ  LZh  °  1"^°'*"^*'""' « 
inaccessible  wilderriei  V  *°"''"'&  "ntroddeti, 

and  «'Cm^TslXrs  b^  *ï?  i»proven,ent  . 

hausdblefeceptaclejZwkeT?^^^  "^T  '""'  '-«■ 
a  bail  of  string  and  haT/a  dn^l      "."""^ ''=«  «"""""«d 

and  René  haveVnXndtïhteSrher''  r^""  ' 
more  supple  branches,  until  the  Itol  Ak  1.     ""■'  '"'''*"> 
tively  strong,  and  prenwed  .0  b      ""■  "  ««"Para- 

^blasts,  and  %^  wiSi7S  a  ^^,,^/"""'*^  "'Sht 
stands  with  its  baS  to  a^,l    i  ""?/  ''""«  «aie.    It 

ghus  ait  off  andTlw.  hL    Ç*»' .'«"«'Wçr.  the  noith  wind 

P  y  and  soundly  as  ever  in  the  littJe  white  cot. 


*^, 


if^i\i^ 


■Wh 


p7f 


*/.-  r  '^i.-- «W^^'r    1*1  C-*. 


4  s- 


FÔC/jR    DA  YS. 


«57 


•Jf* 


at  home.  There  is  room  enough  in  the  bower  for  her  to 
lie  at  full.  lengrth,  but  decidedly  hone  for  supçrfluous 
turning  round,  or  standing  up.  She  crawls  iu  on  her 
hands  and  knees,  and  backs  out— ^as  people  do  from  the 
présence  of  royalty — but  always  on  ail  fours.  Hère,  too/ 
the  boys,  who  rémain  alternately  on  the  lookout  at  night,  ' 
take  tums  during  the  day,.to  woo  balmy  slumber.  And 
there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done.  No  fishing,  snaring, 
shooting — nothing  but  to  pick  the  everlasting  raspberry, 
of  which  their  soûls  long  since  wearied,  an^Iie  on  ^e 
furze,  and  g^ze  with  longing,  haggard  eyes  dFer  the  piti-  < 
less  sea.  Sails  corne  and  go,  but  always  afar  off.  They 
hâve  hoisted  their  handkerchiefs  on  trees,  they  light  lires 
during  the  day  on  the  hill-side— aU  in  vain.  They  dare 
not  burn  beacons  at  night,  lest.vessels  should  mistake 
the  signal  for  Dree  Island  Light,  a^d  so  be  lured  on  the 
fatal  reefs.  And  it  is  the  aftemoon  of  this  third  àsifi  and 
rescue  cometh  not. 

They  rest  in  differékit  positions  on  the  grass,  ail  silent 
and  sad,  and  watch,  with  vague  fear,  the  rising  storm. 
It  promises  to  be  a  very  violent  one — a  tempest  of  thun- 
der  and  Ughtning— a  tornado  of  wind  and  rain — z.  swift 
summer  cyclone,  (^ealing  death  and  destruction  upon 
land  and  sea. 

"  And  Snowball  is  so  afraid  of  lightning  and  thunder," 
thinks  René,  "and  the  bower,  that  we  hâve  tried  so  hard 
to  rig  up  for  her — will  Jt  stand  five  ipinutes  in  the  teeth 
of  this  rising  gale  ?"  ^ 

His  languid  gaze  tums  to  where  Snowball  lies,  prone,'' 
and  listless,  and  mute,  and  pâle,  with  closed  eyes,  her 
fair  head  pillowed  on  one  wasted  àrm.    Yes,  wasted,  al- 
though  the  remains  of  the  luncheon  and  the  chief  share 
of  the  raspbérries  hâve  been  hers.    She  has  passioniàtely 

sted  and  appeale<^for  an  equgU^4ivi§iQaJbgaL&epy^ 
the  inflexible,  has  not  yielded  a  jot. 

"  You  Will  take  what  we  give  you  ;  do  as  I  tell  you, 
or  wo  will  never  be  frieads  ag^n  !"  he  says,  in  his  most 


/■' 


I  - 


it 


t 


<»? 


1^:-^ 


158 


■,mff,i' 


FOUR    DAYS, 


-ôbstinatc  voice.  and  she  has  sobbed  and  succumbed. 
But  he  ,s  vcry  good  to  her  in  ail  else,  verygentïe  sur! 

knoJn      V       'u  ^^™»"««"ng    René   she    has    hitherto 

rroldliadon^    r  '"'"k*  ^"^  '""""^  that^memo'rb  e 
-  -XisS  she  may  be  fretful  and  irritabi,  at  tirnes 
sue  16  mdeed-but  his  patience  with  her  never  flairs 

both  «dès,  not  in  th*  least  likely  to  !«,,  .7  th^  onTy  ^ 

off  with  life.  but  René  has  m«ie  up  Cm  nd  H  sha  f  iS 

dur«g  their  stay  on  Chapeau  Dieu,  and  Rene'sre^r 

^ons  are  as  those  of  the  Mede  and  the  Perêlan     ffis 

mderT,7of  E  ".-1  '"*.  iT'S^"*»-  -"  René,  a  fine 
M»a  never  tires.     He  dips,  too,  into  the  denths  ai  hil 

«*^  poetry-Vtttor  Hugo's  and  Beranger's,  môstiv-: 

<!„"V"fr'  "'°"'''  """^  """"K*"  yo"  had  it  in  vou  " 
Snowtel,,,ays  ,0  him,  with  that  eharming  candor  whfch 

IJTT^'^  character  of  their  intiLoy"  Cône 

Sa,  »  Jh^^'T""^  '"  ""  ^«  "»  silent  and 

^i:  h:,tL^;^."-  '°  •"  «'"""'  "  -<«'  '»  -  ^'-- 

m„~"^  "T  Sï°"  "P  °"«='"  "  '•«  ""S  to  spend  three 

Sy    ':?H°d?'"?';    ?'«^"  «»Po»<"  Joh^»y.  lat 
guiaiy.       H^  doesn't  look  good  for  ovcr  twentv  f«.»« 

y  ou  fcgRp  ajl  you  .pick  for  «u~I  - ^ 


siftfvîn-r      T  ^«  '^  ^u— ,  racan  you  are  slowly 


'ii'^"* 


;'^;: 


•S" 


POUR    DAYS,  159 

He  makes  a  weary  motion  to  rise-»-truth  to  tell,  ho^ 
they  ail— are  almost  too  weak  to  stir.  The  raspberries 
are  not  so  very  plentiful,  and  an  utter  distaste  for  their 
insipid  sweetness  bas  ssized  thetn  ail.  René  iooksde- 
cidedly  tlie  worst.  His  dark,  tiiin  face,  paie  at  ail  times, 
is  bianclied  to  a  duii,  clayey  liue— its  outiinft  against  tliç 
darkening  sky  lias  tlie  shrunk,  pinclied  look  tiiàt  oniy 
starving  gives.  He  is  worn  with  anxiety;  he  iiardiy 
sleeps  ;  he  gives,  as  Johnny  says,  the  lion's  share  of  ail 
the  fruit  he  gathers  to  Snowl>ail,  and  compels  her  to  takc 
it.  His  great  dark  eyes  look  holiow,  and  twice  their 
nati]|-al  size— they  shine  with  a  dry,  feverish  glitter  not 
well  to  see.  But  the  light  that  looks  out  of  them  now, 
on  his  "bi^other,  is  very  sweet. 

"  Never  mind  me,  mon  ami,  I  ^m  ail  right.     I  havcn't  ' 
much  flesh  to  lose,  yoi*  know,  and  we  black  people  show 
this  sort  of  thing  soonest.     Look  out  for  yourself.    If  I 
can  take  you  and  Snowball  back  in  tolerable  condition,  ' 
nothing  élse  matters." 

Then  thére  is  silence  again  ;  they  are  too  weak,  too 
«pent,  too  thoroughly  worn  otU  and  spiritless  in  mind 
and  body  to  care  for  talking.  And  Rene's  voice  is  past 
reading.  It  is  husky  and  bjôken,  and  pretty  well  gone. 
With  a  tired  sigh  Johnny  relapses  on  his  hillock,  his 
broWn,  curly  head  clasped^  in  his  lâced  fingers,  his  blue, 
gentle  eyes  wandering,î^fmlessly  over  the  b^y. 

He  never  complaintes,  never.  is  cross,  never  wishes,/^ 
audibly,  e^n  f or  r^sf^e.    His  face  bas  a  dull,  slow,  pa- 
tient look  of  pain  4nd  waiting.    He  is  çonsumed  with 
igrindinghungeraiîd  fiUed  with  dire  forebodin^    For 
raspberries  are  giVihg  out,  and,  after  another  day  or  two,^ 
'  if  help  docs'not  come ^  .  ,    ,. 

He  never  ^ets  f urther.  A  f ellow  can  die  but  once, 
he  says  to  hiinself^  with^fo^orn  philogpP^'y^    9°^^  *^'^ 


is  such  sl0w  dyïng.    And  tHën  thére  is  pgpa-^Iways^ 
there  is  ^pa— back  by  nôw,  and  frantic  with  fear  and 


'•i'. 


s'*. 


\ 


J4t.     - 


<". 


«'■. 


i&S^'isi#^'-^^,%#w- 


■■■!-if 


-..;.  t^f'^^W'^mP'- 


-ff-- 


^4 


.-  f 
M. 

t 


160 


FOUR    DAYS. 


^ief.    At  this  poîHt  Johnny's  face goes down  on  the^irf 
«  ,  !'««  veiy  still  for  à  long  time.  ^' 

,.  1.  ^,      u?"  '*  «^««P»°&"  Snowball  will  say  toherself  in 
ward  off  gnats  and  bées,  with  a  cedar  branch. 
rh«  ♦k'"      .'  ^"''P"sing  to  relate,  she  keeps  up  the  beat  of 

«If  ft'^^P^  '^'^  "^'""^^  ™®'»'**  vent  haS  somethinir  to  do 

fu»;  °       ^^"^^  ^^'''  *"^  '**«  «*«°der  frame  is  wond^r! 
fully  vigorous  and  healthful.    ,  »  wonaer- 

Still  more,  she  bas  double  rations  of  bernes  altho.,ûrh 
shedoesnotlcnow  it.    She  eae,  what  sheTcks  he"^^ 

set"  ^°"  P^^"^^«ed,"  he  says,  and  the  resolute  young  Ijp, 

'    a„^**  M^"  Snowball  knows  she  has  found  her  4s|r^ 
and  meekly  yields.  f^^",,*. 

'  r.rlf^\"^  T:  ^  ^''  ^^  '^''  '^«^"d  place,"  she  2^*- 
end  Jet  me  èell  you.  René  may  think  he  is  going  to  t^% 
untiLw^^re  back  home  and  you  will  see."  ^      ^ 

rinW    7    *   ^':°^°^  "^"^^^^y  '•  "  '  ^»s*»  r  was  back  to  see 
now.    I  sometimes  think,  Snowball " 

;     "Well?"  , 

"This  is  the  aftemoonof  the  thirdday.    Papa  must 
^<r;^' ^^'^    Snowbnll,  thi^k^g^^^L^ 
^— QH;  Johnnyl  dear,7old  Johnny  ["T  gr^t  i^«  ^ 


;^::S. 


'■x.liïWi 


l^_]\':i% 


FOUR    DAYS, 


i6t 


"  A  storm  is  rising — ^look  at  that  sky.  We  hâve  aot 
had  a  storm  for  o ver  two  weeks — it  will  be  ail  the  worse 
when  it  cornes.  You  know  what  storms  arc  on  tB^s 
âoast.     It  may  last  for  days." 

"Yes,*' sobs  Snowball,  in  despair. 

"No  boat  can  pjut  off  to  corne  to  us  while  it  lasts, 
even  if  they  knew  wbere  we  were.     No  boat  could  land 


calm  weather.     The  surf 
u  ils  sometbing  that  re- 


e  in  her  lap. 
lying  in  a  sort  of  tor-  ' 
wox  waking,  and  he  looks 


even  at  Sugar  Scoop,  exce 
ail  along  the  base  of  Cha: 
quires  to  be  seen  to  be 

Snowball  is  sobbing 

The  Sound  arouses  Ré! 
por,  but  is  neither  sleepi 
angry  at  his  brother. 

•'  I  wish  you  wpuldn't,"  he  says  ;  "  why  do  yôu  make 
her  cry  ?    What  are  you  telling  her  ?" 

"  Nothing  much,"  says  Johnny,  surprised  at  his  own 
performance.  "  t  didn't  mean  to  make  her  cry  ;  I  was 
saying  a  storm  is  rising — a  bad  pne — and  no  boat  can 
corne  until  it  II  pVèr.    I  say,  Snowball,  hold  up.'* 

But  Snowball^  w^faik,  fiPightened,  hud|gry,  sobs  on. 

"You  need  not  tell  her  such  things — time  enough  for 
trouble  when  it°  cornes,  Snowball  !"  René  cries  eut,  and 
his  voice  is  sharp  with  nervous  pain,  "don't.  It  huris  me 
to  hear  you.  Oh,  my  God  !"  he  says,  undgyiis  breath, 
"helpus — helpA^/    Do  not  l«i»re  us  hei^f^pdie  !"  - 

Then,  with  the  prayer  still  on  his  lips,  he  sinks  bâck,J' 
1.00  weary  eVen  to  sit  upright,  ând  seems  to  sleep.    Reno 
is  in  a  very  bad  wa^ — indeed,  is  the  worst  case  of  the 
three,  and  somehow  tne  knowledge  çomes  home  to  Snov- 
bail,  and  stills  her  tears. 

She  looks  àt  him — if  René,  their  mainstay,  fails,  what 
is  to  become  of  them.  As  she  looks,  à  smile  crosses  his 
worn.  pAllid  face — René  has  a  venr  sweetsmile.  the  mûre 
sweet  for  being  rare. 


1. 1 


r-.-- 


"  Give  it  to  her,"  he  says  ;  "  we  don't  want  it,  Johnny. 
For  me,  I  will  hâve  çoffe^  I  think;"  ,  ' 


%f  'f 


^W 


A 


.« 


si; 


!éi^*>--'.  4?^,"^^;» j^». •.  ' . 


"Mi 


ïb 


\     /:.» 


ff- 


•«»  /     \FOCrjl    DAVS. 

«reammg  agai„.  «  He  is  dreaming  of  home  ^^^t7 
thmgtoeat  And  look  at  his  fac^like  dea^h  He  fj 
stamng,  Johnny.    Oh,  Johnny,  it  breaks  my  Zn  " 

.  waccnes  tûe  rapidly  nsing  storm. 
"  Hère  itis  The  cries  out. 

inere  is  a  profound  bush,   nature  seems  to  hold  her 
breathforasecond,theninits  might  the  s^Wft  sumraer 

îT^^t/k     l^f'''^''^^''  *  «^o'nent  in  an  awful  wav 
it  crçuches  before  tbe  fury  of  tbe  wind  ;  and  then  thé 

shaktslL/^    l'"''  '^^  '^^  ^^""^«^'  P«^ï  ^fter  pea 

dtwn  Um  thf ''^  "'r°'"l"  !:"  '^^  ^-«'  'h-  l>I-st  roars 
aown  irom  tbe  summit  witb  boarse  bellowine  •  tbe  ^:. 
ans^ers  back  witb  deep  and  boUow  ecbo  stucrand 
cedar  saplmgs  are  t<»rn   up  witb  one  fierce  rurh   and    ' 

stroke  of  tbe  tornado,  torn  wildly  i„to  sbreds. 

Kene  grasps  bis  rock,  bis  bat  blown  into  soace  in  f  h« 

Kr.S?t  r  •  "r  ""  """^  ■"O^""  -  ^^""tl de° 
ner  long,  hgbt  bair  streaming  in  tbe  gale.  > 

h  J^    7  ^''^^'^^'  '^"^  '  **«  <^^"  ^^ï  her  quiver  from 
Ss^i^  -^^^^a3b,ateacbcIap^ex^eptfor^Z 

Icss  atoms,  m  tbe  ma^burly-burly  of  wind,  andS        * 
mng,andra^.    Darkncss  ^s  fallen.  too,  sw  f^den^   , 


^f' 


'«.  ,'»t  _..,r- 


"  '    ïe,-,. 


•x?     "-«if 


FOUR    DAYS. 


163 


they  can  hardly  see  each  other's  faces,  thouglr  but  a  few 
yards  apart. 

It  lasts  for  nearly  an  hour— a  lifetime  it  seems  to 
them.  Then  slowly,  as  if  with  reluctance,  to  see  the  evil 
it  has  wrought,  the  dark  clouds  light,  the  sky  brightens, 
the  thunder  rumbles  oflf  into  space,  the  wind[lulls,  the 
rain  ceases.  Only  the  sea,  like  ^ome  suUen  monster, 
lslow  to  wrath,  is  slow  also  to  forgive,  keeps  up  its  dull 
bellowing,  and  breaks,  and  beetles,  and  thunders  in  huge 
great  breakers  over  the  sunken  reefs,  and  up  against  thé 
granité  sides  of  Chapeau  Dieu. 

But  they  can  breathe  once  more,  and  Snowball  lifts 
her  head,  with  ail  its  dripping  flaxen  hair  ;  and  three 
white  young  faces — blqe  eyes,  gray  eyes,  brown  eyes — 
look  into  each  other,  in  awful  hush.  There  is  nothing  to 
be  said,  nothing  to  be  done  ;  they  are  wet  to  the  skin  ; 
I  the  breath  is  nearly  beaten  out  of  their  bodies  ;  the  surf 
ipay  roll  heavily  for  days  around  the  mountain  ;  no  help 
can  come  now — and  the  last  of  the  raspberries  hâve  been 
beaten  f^  the  bushes  and  washed  into  pulp  by  the  fury 
of  the  storm.     It  is  the  fcrowning  disaster  of  ail. 

"  So  be  it  !"  René  says  at  last,  aloud,  as  if  in  answer 
ta  their  thought — "  we  can  but  die  !" 

"  It  was  death  before,"  Johnny  responds,  "  and  no 
fellow  can  die  more  than  once." 

"  Snowball,"  the  elder  boy  says,  and  rises  slowly,  and 
sits  beside  her,  "  you  are  not  afraid,  are  you  ?  Dear  little 
Snowball.     I  am  sorry  for^'^w/" 

She  makes  no  reply.  She  is  only  conscious  of  being 
very  tired — very,  very  tired.  She  is  not  conscious  of 
being,  afraid,  but  René  sees»  that  nervous  quiver  strike 
thrpùgh  her  again. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?"  he  asks,  in  his  weak  Toice. 


7*k 


Nor  ottly  ttrecfc    L^  me  rest— 'Sc-'Ren^  dear." 
He  holds  her,  and  so  they  sit  ;  and  so  night  finds 
them,  when  'it  falls.    It  falls  soft  and  star-lit,  but  very 
^hill;  the  clouds  sweep  away  before  the  bright  wind» 


ï 


fi 

h.- 


V 


droggmg  de«h.  far  fro„  friends  and  hTuie     tw'!'' 
nothmg  more  that  can  be  done  or  iu  nr  ^it    ^1-  *  " 

■     <'eathfi„dtCl^CiL'27„:t-J«.a„d. 
JtX^ZZ^^^:  '"^  -"'=«<'  S-ss.    René 

|he  clingLher  C'hbM  on  ^nh^as  Iff ,"  '"  ^'=°' 
Suchafeeble  hold  !  the  wcak  K»U  «         l  .'"'P^  a"»/- 

thcv  are  sfîli  qIi'tt^      ai-       ^     " **"°^"®r sun has  nsen. 

wi.J  a":^r  d^^T  fui^X"!'.  5o'h  ""''  "r-     "  '^ 
«If  together  and  stands  ™his  te       ^"^  ^"'*"  """• 

Ve.nL-'rn  ^nt  L;t;,Ï  VrnX' r  °' ''^^^ 
•  sodden  furze.  '     ^  °°'  ®^^*'3^'  <^ver  the 

to  .Z'itnrie's ""'''  ^^  "^^    "^«  -"  Ko-«- 
Oome.    he  savs  an,i  k^i^ °. .    :      :""***     ♦ 


'V  ■*''  4v 


"  k-, ^««  fituuj  xasi 

Shc  take,  ...  wd  U.ey  totter  on  .  fc„  s.ep.    Johna, 


iK 


!éiS!''Vv'«»,      *9 


:.:»i.> 


>.^|ny' 


''?t  '  ^^  f- 


1    •<--       '     -0 


',•^,7-" 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


i6S 


y«i* 


recpyers  fîrst  and  most,  and  manages  tô  walk  tolerably 
well  after  a  moment  ;  but  it  is  hard  work  for  the  other 
two, 

",There  is  soniething — the  matter — with  the|groiind," 
René  gasps,  giddily.  "  It  is — going|r-up  and  down, 
Snowball  !"  <* 

He  utters  a  cry.  ^rth  and  sky  go  up,  and  corne 
down,  and  seem  to  strike  him  with  a  crash  on  the  b'ack 
of  his  head.  With  that  cry  he  réels  forward,  and  fiallsl  at 
her  feet  like  the  dead.  »  "^ 


( 


I  i 


H'I 


CH^f>TER  XIV. 


MONSIEUR 


PAUL. 


N'  this  is  the  sixlh  day,  an'  if  tlie  Lord  hasn't 
said  it,  it's  dead  they  are  !    It's  maybe  at 
the  bottom  av  the  say  they  are.     I  say  Tm 
sayin'  it's  at  the  i)ottom  av  the  say  they 
;  are!"  , 

The  speaker  is  old  Tim,  light-house-keeper  of  Dree 
Island,  and  his  audience  are  a  group*éf  men,  gathered  in 
the  bar-rpom  of  the  St.  Gildas  Hôtel.  They  listen  with 
anxious  faces,  in  silence,  wfiile  old  Tim  tells  his  taie. 
Old  Tim  is  a  short  man,  of  sixty  or  more,  with  an  ugly, 
surly,  honest,  weather-beaten  face,  crimson  with.  much 
Irish  whisky  and  Canadian  sunsbine-^omething  of  an 
oddity  in  his  way.  Old  Tim  never,  by  any  chance,  listens 
to  what  is  said  to  him  by  anybody,  if-he  eau  help  it,  so,  judg- 
ing  others  subject  to  the  same  infirmity,  he  bas  a  habit  of 
jausing  his  voicCpa^^bagocg^^ay^^tssertiBg 


himself,  and  so  drowning  ail  ill-bred  interruption. 

"  It's  that  slip  av  a  gcrrel.    The  byes  is  well  enough. 
l'm  not  sayin'  a  word  agen  the  byes.    It's  that  gerrel.    I 


)A>ltt'<»k&.  fiÉti  <,■!,«  Z^ttkti  «.  ^mX^ 


ji 


«  ""'■,/''  i 


i>''--''l-»'^St;î*%-«t'" 


''-î?-ïQ#.* 


i">- 


E    t 


>".,H:J|'-Si#j'* 


i66 


0sai 


WSÎEUR    PAUL. 


rarsion.    It  s  that  gerrel.    I  say  Fm  savin'  it's 
âvagerrel!"  ,    !>«*>in    us 

Va\2^^^'*^''-'"1*^'  ^^^  P^*^'^^^  "P  yesterday  adrift  off 
liftéïeyebtws  ''  '^":  ''^^  ^^^'^^  "^^^'^^^  -^'^  "P- 
me  veif  heàrt's  bruk  with^he  alaf^ms  rve  been  tw' 

r>e  left  to^attind  to  th^e  li.ht.    tx^^Z^i^^,:^'^^^ 
tis  wishinUhira  well  I  am  for  alarrumsJ"  ' 

And  Dr.  Macdonald  away  from  home  fno  "  ««  .k       ^ 
san  and  ,oo.s  blanki,  abo'ut  Z'^^CUr." 

"  faix  lie  is,"  responds  old  Tim  ;  "  an',  more  betok^n 
some  others  is  away  that's  wanted  at  home.  "  «Lrfnr' 
■s  away  among  ,he  Injuns  and  the  FTaoCSd  ^ss^ 

.i^:rtTof:-"ra^-.^^^^ 

impe°fnênT°We  ^m  dl^^'  T"  ■"^"■'  «P««  ^o- 
Père  LÔufst."  '    °  """'  "'  '^°'  ""  "«««»•  "''ère 

"I  say  it's  not  to  the  lilces  o' ve  "  reivai.  «m  t- 
taHim  ifFatheriauis  „as  tothffore.    Aa4  m  t.  liL'î 


/.■■ 


^.À^'kè^ 


./. 


.«'.s 


14* 


'v^-^"'4*vf 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


J167 


sayin',yc  beyanttheré?    An,  where's  them  that  wint  in 
her  ?— tell  me  that."         '  \ 

They  look  at  one  another,  and  are  silent.    Dr.  Mac- 
.     donald  is  well  knovvn,  and  better  liked,  by  every  man  bjf 
"      theinf.    They  know  the  boys  too,  and  the  pretty  blonde 
girl  with  the  waving  fair  hair. 

"It's^bad  lookout."  • 

^*  Six  days  m^ssing  !    Mon  Dieu  !  it  is  tenible  !"     . 
"Old  Tim  ought  to  be  shot  !"  v 

,    "  Whowill  tell  the  doctbrthis?"  ^/ 

"After  the  storms  of  Thursday  too.     Even  if  Sey 

^d  Qiake  land  somewhere " 

«    "Ma  foi!  was  not  the  Boule-de-ncige  iound,  keel  up, 
-  three  miles  the  other  side  of  Tormentine?    Make  land  ! 
The  first  land  they  made,  my  friend,  was  the  bôttom." 

"  Poor  children  !  Two  fine  lads  ;  handsomè  and 
manly,  and  the  prettiest  little  girl  you  could  see!  It  is 
a  great  pity." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Yes,"  sàys  old  Tim,  chiming  in  like  a  Greek  chorus, 
"l'm  sayin' what's  to  be  done?  It's  not  standin'  hère 
like  -sticks  o'  salin'  wax  that'll  resky  thim  av  they're 
anywhere.     l'm  sayin*  it's  not  standin'  hère " 

He  breaks  oflf.  There  has  entered  quietly  among 
^  them  a  stranger,  so  di£ferent  in  appearance  from  ms^t  of 
the  men  around  him,  ast  to  be  conspicuous  at  a^anccT 
A  tall,  dfirk-beard^d,  §loWn,  travcled-looking  man,  with-^^ 
a  stamp  that  is  not  of  St.  Gildas  upon  him,  handsomè 
beyond  question,  and  havi%,  perhaps,  thirty  oj,  more 
years.  ■  ■      "    ^ 

Old  Tim's  jaw  dropaA,  he  gazes,  and  stil^|^  wonder 
grows,  hismouth  agape,  his  small  eyes  o^Eng  wïde 
Then  his  wonder  sùtidenly  bursts  înto  véhément  speech. 

"  It'shim  !'' cries  old  Tim.    "  Oh,  that  I  may  niver.  av 
it  IsiTT  mrnT    Mùhshéer  Paul  f'Mie  bustles  aside  ail  who 
>  interpose,  and  gfesps  the  new-comer's  hand.    "  Misthcr 
1.       Farrar,  darlin',  dcm'tyekûow  me?" 


^      ►J,>,ï#<ifi',,i'. 


'    4 


J 


-4 


é 


m 


ÏjS-'-' 


MONSIElfk    PAUL. 


W»m 


%* 


W^^^^l^ 


'B;.'- 


% 


**Tim^  old  boy!    YeSt  know  your  jolly  ol 
head,  of  èourse,"  r^rns  ftle  stranger,  laugMpg,  a 
•ping  hihi  on  the  shouldi^r.     "D^r  ^Id  dBip, 

you?    A^A'vfhàXs^iUi,!, "  .|^       \^        ^. 

,    "An* Ifs  b^ck  for  gocif .|^l'  all|&^re,  IH^^e,  ïroûi 
|iç/parts  Té  not  be  natni#l^?  Mus^^&t;  thé  buld;^ 
it,  will  be  as  glad  as  if  somebody  haîd  Mt^Axà.. 
''iot>âyin'^bey;4idn;t  a^e  wid  f^,  §^à4.^  ., 
"„B^^^S^^  atiim  admiringly  -,-  ^  it'^imâ' 

■'  '■^^^'^^i^P^'^S^^"***^''"'^'™  sayih'l'sWe^,i 
•^rp;^iî;:\>^lM|^  ^re,  Misther  Farrar.    An' 

yoî|^^^  /«^Biffiii'ÏMX,  thèy^do  be  gayin'  4t  home 


bâii 


,  s  corne  bàck  !' 
Alt  tÉie  ichildrên- 


^  " k'WlBè  Wbtiî^  rowlin'  stone  y<?  are,  if||!l  taies 

abeut  y*f^1)eés  If  rue.    An'  ye've  been  livin'  outllere  in 


%  thim 


>f 


\ 


_  ,J^^  *^^  tïtis  time?    Sure  there  niver  corne  |  batcb 

o'  lettei^à  |p  the  buld  docther  that  I  didn't  go  Up  éï'  ax 

.for  ye.,    «llve  a  bit  a^  a  letther,  Tim,'  sez  he,  'ffom  thim 

sViteknow.'    'Arrah,  bave  ye?'  sez  I;  'howishe  at^^ll  ?' 

eîl,  Tim,  glory  be  to  God,  aii'  he  does  be  sayin'  he'U 

•  '"J^'^  "^  soon.'    Eut,  oh!-wirra,  sure!  knowed  betther^ 

thfh  to  b'iayê  that.    An'  hère  ye  are  !    I  say,  l'm  sayin'. 

hereye "  •  V 

^  •♦  But  thèse  children,  "Çim  ?    For  Heaven's  sake,  never 
jtrnnd  me  !    What  of  the  doctor's  boys,  and  my  girl  ?'.' 
'     "  A^'  yo"»"  gerrel  !    'Pon  me  conscience  thin  but  she's 

ttii^'ful  av  a  gerrel  ?    It's  ail  her  doin's  from " 

;  ^Yès,  yes,  yes,  Tim  !  but  wh&  bas  she  done?    What 
^talk  is  this  of|  wreck  and  storm,  and  a  boat  accident  ? 
t^pn't  you  knoW  l'ifa  ail  at  sea  ?" 

"Yis,  faith,  an'  there's  more  like  ye.    That'jMUpére 
Ihçy  are,  or  may  be  at  the  bottbm.     J  sây,  thatjHpre 
they  are  av  the  1,^  hasn'jt  a  han'  in  tMfii.SPbix 
^-bliastd  xfays  gnic<^ j^^ ji  C  was  Clapt  ôtt 
Bowld-naige,  ?tarn  ^Wffts.  the,wildest  point 
The  stranger  gi'oans,  f^nd  tums  an  ap 


A  *.. 


*,?%i*v'^^%^ 


*»^' 


'T 


&mwf 


''Wm 

al 

mj^: 

lo 

%^ 

•* 

.-,>»;''' 

ba 
T 

fo 
qi 

V 


vjr 


i  «i'jâÉ^v?^ 


r 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


V 


\ 


\^ 


along  the  row  of  faces.     Evidently  he  knows  better  than 
lo,try  .onger  to  stem  thè  fl^  of  Tim'sHalk.  , 

"  Tell  me,  $ome  of  youj^ne  says,  "  the  girl  is  mine." 

"  We  are  sorrv,  m'sieur,"  a  small,  brown-fated  man, 
wilh  gold  ear-rings,  says,  touching  his  cap  ;  "  it  is  ail  ver 
bàd.  It  is  now  six  days  since  they  hâve*  went  away.  ' 
They  went  in  the  boy's  boat — a  batteau — since  yesterday 
found  adrift  many  railes  down  the  bay.  And,"  with 
quick  compassion,  "  it  is  suppose  they  must  be  lost. 
M'sièur%ill  be  good  enough  to  remind  himself.  of  th0. 
storm  of  two  days  since." 

But,  yes  ;  monsieur  remembers,  and  grows  veçy  pale. , 

"  And  Dn  Macdonald  is  away  !"  he  exclairas. 

"  Ah,  m'sieur  !  how  that  is  unfortunate.  If  he  had 
been  home  they  would  hâve  been  discover  since  long 
time.  But  thees  Tim,"  a  shrug,  "  he  say  he  giv€  the  alarm 
many  time,  but  my  faith  !  no  one  haVe  hear  until  to-day. 
Ha!  how  that  is  droW  !"  ■^     ^ 

**  I  heard  some  rumor  yeâterâay,"  another  adds,  "  but 
I  paid  no  great  attention.  «  They  are  often  out  in  the 
little  boat,  and — well,  I  paid  no  attention.  I  suppose 
others  felt  as  I  did — that  they  would  turn  up  ail  right." 

"  It  is  ver  great  peety/'  says  the  Frenchman  ;  "we 
will  do  ail  opr  possib,  but  what  will  you  ?  Six  day»  ! 
Mon  Dieu!"     l 

It  is,  indeed,  a  bldtik  prospect.  They  stand  for  a  little» 
silent,  deep  concern  in  every  face. 

"  Hâve  you  no  idea — has  no  one  any  idea,"  the  new- 
comer,  Mr.  Farrar,  asks,  "of  which  direction  they  took? 
Thej  must^hj^l^had  |É|I%  djstinct  idea  of  going  some- 
where^  v^i^^'pvXa^.   Djps  Ma'am  Weesy  not  know  ?** 

"  Hère  she  is  for  yë}  W  lËer  spake  for  hersilf,"  says 
Tim!^  "  Wasy,  wc^an,  l'm  sayioi,  come  hcre  a  mi^utç. 
It's  wanted,  ye  are^-^L^ay  it'a  waiwed  ye  are,  an4  by  thim 


1 


^W 


as  maybe  ye  thbugit  was  far  away.' 
.  Ma'àm  Weesy,  her  browp  face  one  picker  of  onxioui 


.  '  '■«■  -u  . 

iJ 

'hÛ^M;  -^ 

rfr. 


<^ 


%^ 


<*»S>i3ï> 


ll^tfl^iKilj  jMu 


4-0, 


H 

't  11 


»  «t 


>'■: 


'  il- 


41 


t 
A 


i:  ■'  ' 


l. 


'. '.      ....'    ■-■.  ■:  r'\r  "  -  '      ;■    ..  ■'  -..^^^  ,,-■ 

170  MONSIEUR    PAUL,      '     ■      ^ 

wrinkles,  ail  wjid  with  âlarm,  and  vague  witîj  ejaoula-    ^ 
lions,  bustles  in  among  the  men. 

"Look  athim  now,"  says  Tim,  "there  he  is  forninst 
V  ye  ;  an'  it's  many  a  long  day  ye'll  luk  among  thim  bèg- 

garly  spàlpeens  av  Frinchmin  afore  ye  see  he's  like  !" 

But  tiïhrlast  old  Tim  is  polite  enough  to  add  under 
liis  breath,  a4  he  points  one  stubby  index  fi<ger  at  the 
last  arrivai.    -  / 

Ma'am  Weesy  does  look,  in  puzzled  wonder  and  in- 
credulity,  perplexity,  récognition,  doubt  in  her  mahogany. 
face. .   He  holds  out  his  hand.  ^ 

^"  It  is  I,  Ma'am  Weesy,  your  troubleson^e  boarder  of  ' 
nine  years  ago,  and'back  in  a  very  disastrous  time,  I 
fear."  •     ' 

"  M.  Paul  !"  the  old  wo'man  cries  out,  joyfully.  "  Ah, 
how  this  is  well.  Oh,  m'sieu,  I  rejoice  to  welcome  you 
Dack,  if  one  may  rçjoice  in  anything  at  such  a  time.  You 
hâve  hear  ?"  t 

**Yes,  I  hâve  heard.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  ;  but  per- 
haps  you  can  help  us,  if  indeed  it  is  not  too  late  for  ail 
help.  Surely  you  know  something  of  where  they  intended 
togo?"  A  -  " 

'♦  No,  m'sieu,"  \rith  a  sob,  "  I  do  not!  ^h,  granMkiU 
they  went  so  often,  Iciia^  you^and  I  fear  nbt.  What  was 
there  to  fear,  with  Ma^èi;  Jean  in  the  boat;  that  has  beea 
in  a  boat  since  hd'coula  wàlk  alone?  They  w'ent  ail  the 
days — I  never  though^f  of  asSing.  ,1  rejoice  to  see  them 
g(^ — me,  wicked  tHat  I  am-^they  so  disarrange  me(a.t  my 
work.  And  that  day  T  was  glad— glad  they  ga^for  I 
hâve  great  deal  to  do,  and  mademoiselle,  she^tease  me 
much.  Heli^s  !  no,  IVf.  Pa^iVl  know  nqt  where  the  4ear 
\^  little  ones  may  be.     Oirîythe  good  God,  He  know."  ^^ 

"  Whei-e  were  they  most  in  the  habit  of  going  ?"     ^ 

"Every where,  m'sieu.     Up  and  down,  here^nd  th'ere,^^,, 
—  4J1  placefe    T'4iey  go  sometime  to  the  fndian  vtHages' fur    ir^ 


moccasin,  and  basket,  and  bead-bag,  evei».    Everj'wbero 
they  go— ail  plac«$,"    . 


-/ 


^'^tf\A.    ,   .US 


K 


\ 


le      l-Tf    ,-»t 


''.v 


"im 


%'/,  :■•! 


T,V    ï 


orninst 

1 

tm  bèg- 

<er 

! 

1  undcr 

■  at  the 

and  in- 

hogany. 

! 

irder  oV 

tirae,  I 

«Ah, 

t' 

ne  you 
e.   You 

1         f 

'       1 

ut  per- 
forall 

1*1 

tended 

'    ti 

\MkilI 

i 

lat  was 

; 

I 

is  beea 

■    t 

•  ; 

ail  the 

1 

î  them 

(^atmy 
(iox  I 

ase  me 

;  i. 

e  à^fjxx 

"    i 

.:,/*•' 


MONSIEUR    PAUL,  171 

"Andthey  said  nothing,  nothing  at  ail?  TaxÀour 
memory,  Ma'am  Weesy,  the  least  hint  may  be  of  import- 
ance now." 

Ma'am  Weesy  knits  her  b^o^vn  brows,  puckers  her 
uouthj  makes  an  eflfort,  and  shakes  her  head. 

"It  isof  nouse,  M.  Paul,  they  said  nothing.  Only 
ihey  talk  pf  raspberries  the  àay  before,  perhaps,  who 
knovv,  they  go  for  raspberry  ?" 

"  And  where  is  the  most  likely  place  for  raspberries  ? 
They  would  naturally  ^<:i  where  they  were  most  plentîîul. 
Oh,  my  dear  old  woma^,  how  could  you  leave  this  matter 
for  six  long  days  ?" 

"  I  did  my  best,"  Ma'am  Weesy  says,  weeping.  "  I 
did  tell  Teem  ;  I  come  to  St.  Gildas  two,  three,  five  time  ; 
I  tell  ail  I  know.  But  what  will  you,  M.  Paul?  Père 
Lquis  he  is  gone,  M.  le  doctor  he  is  gone,  and  for  th 
rest — bah  !  what  they  care  ?  They  are  |?eesy,  it  will  be  al 
right,  they  say,  and  go  their  way  ;  no  one  can  handle  a 
boat  better  than  Master  Jean.  And  now  they  gs^y  to  mé 
la  Boule-de-neige  is  found,  and  not  my  children.  And  to- 
morrow  M.  le  doctor  will  be  home,  and  me,  how  am  I  to 
face  him  ?  I  promise  him  I  care  for  them,  and  see  how  I 
Iceep  my  word." 

As  she  sobs  out  the  last  words  there  is  a  bustle  at  the 
^-é^or,  and  a  man  enters  hurriedly  and  looks  around. 
/        "  Hâve  you    heard,    Desereaux  ?"    some    one    asks. 
"  What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Heard  ?  yes,"  the  new-comer  says,  excitedly. 
know  wh^re  they  are  !    Where  they  started  to  go  to,  at 
least.    ft  the  doctor  he;-e  ?    Is  he  back  ?" 
->      **  /  am  hère  ;  I  am  concerned  in  this  matter.    You  re- 
member   me,    perhaps,   M.     Desereaux  ?     I    am    Paul 


\. 


<i 


arrar 


■#' 


"  welcorri 
opportu 
ones  at  once. 


rM-    Paul  !"   Desereaiiy    f^rasns    hîg    tinf 

k  to  St.  Gildas.    You  hâve  come  at  a  most 

time.     We  must  set  off  in  search  of  thèse  lost 


t 


They  are  safe  and  well  still,  I  hope,  ii) 


i 


f'.A 


^   M 


lii  lL(.-il,,rt-^ îiiï 


'':îv,„^-*, 


£} 


17a 


M-C 


P/iUL, 


on  al 

turi 

sooner. 


spite  of  the  batt^p|^^^lî|j^ed  her  moorings.    Mes 
awV,  they  are  ^^^Mafleau  Died  r 

A  murmurâ?*^f  surpris^/ consternation,  relief,  ^6t%. 
through  thé  group.  "CThapeau  Dieu  !"  ail  exclaim. 
"  They  are  fbund,  «jid  on  Chapeî 

"Thcvwayl  kifow  is  thi4#W!?D3s^eatÉi«^g6ês  on. 
"Maded*oiselle  Snowbail  toid  my  d^aughCer  Innocente,  at 
the  coi\Y©^t,  the  other  day,  that  she  and  the  boys  pro- 
posed  Majag  to  Chapeau  Dieu  for  raspberries,  and  invited^ 
her  foMjompany  them.     Inno  could  not,  she  was  going 
if  out  of  town  with  me,  and  went.     We  only  re- 
to-day  ;  that  îs  why  she  did  not  hear  and  speak 
My  idea  is,  they  wei^t  up  the  mountain,  moored 
thq  boat,  and  ,^hile  they  were  in  search  of  berries  that 
the  batteau  floated  out  on  the  ebbj^ide.     They  might  re- 
main there  a  riionth,  and  no  one  chance  upon  them,  u|ÉL 
'     less  they  went  on  purpose.     The  question  at  présent  1^ 
*io.w^{o  reach  l^em.     It  will  be  a  most  difficult  matter  to 
eflfeA  landin^  â||he  foot  of  the  mountain,  after  the  ré- 
cent storm.  '  Stillwe  must  try."  A  ^ 

"  We  must,  rtiost  cekainlj^"  says  Mr.  Farrar,  "  and  «^ 
Wïthout  a  moment's  delay.  #<I.l|ding  is  always  possible, 
even  in  the  heaviest  surf,.^at  Su^r  Scoop  %each.     Men  ! 
who  of  you  will  coife?    Q^ick  !"  * 

There  are  half  a  Ooien  volunteers  in  a  mdment.    The 
^ group  disperses;   they  hurry  to  the  sh^re,  aûd  in  ten 
minimes  a  large  boat^jP^unchèd  a^flyiiig  ^ough.  the 
whité*  caps  to  the  rescuE  *    ^^ 

•    j^Ma'am  Weesy,  ftrll  of  .Jiope  an(j 
acfo^s  the  river,  to  prépare  ^É^'r 
sort^;forthe  little  lost   ones*^Bjd 
and  lt^is-p|»-haps  the  ôrsjt  time^pal 

'Atr'"^"^^^^^  ^^^t  th®y  ^^  "ot  quîttrel  by  the  way. 
JP^'  Desereaux  àccompanies  Paul  Farrar  in  his  ana 
S"^  <îû6st:  Hie  twb  men'talk  little  ;  the  thought  of  tKe 
tmildren  absorbs  them,  but  Mr.  VFarrar  inftyrms  him  that 
this  is  merely  pne  of  fiis  flyinfe  visits  to  èis  old  friend, 


^hasféns  homf^^ 


6i\\\ 

over, 

leir  raany'years  of 


comfortis 
im  rows  her 


V 


'®^:*     - 


U^^, 


\^lV^i.u    '  kù^ 


% 


J''!^  •'%%', 


ur 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


XII 


preparatory  to  a  still  more  prolonged  absence  abroad. 
He  is  going  yet  fiirther  afield— to  Russia— he  bas  re- 
ceived  an  appointment  to  St.  Petersburg,  through  the 
good  oflSces  of  an  ïnfluential  friand,  and  wili  départ  for 
that  far-off  land  in  a  very  few  weeks.  He  is  tijcd  of 
Fayal,  and  his  monotonous  existence  there. 

"I  am,  as  old  Tim  tells  me,  a  rolling  stone,  that  will 
never  gather  much  moss,"  he  sâys  ;  "  but,at  least  I  need 
not  yegetate  fo rêver  in  orie  place."  / 

"f!ow  fast  it  grôws  dark  !"  M.  Deserçàux  exciàiîns, 
scanning  the  horizon,  "f  wish  we  coul(^  hâve  daylight 
to  eflfect  a  landing.     At  least  we  will  bavé  a  full  moon." 

"  It  is  rising  now,"  Farrar  says.  "  Surely  we  must  be 
witbin  a  mile  or  so  of  Sugar  Scoop."    / 

"  We  may  çearcb  until  morning  be^ore  finding  them, 
even  if  thejrare  on  tl^e  mountain.  Ijt  is  a  wide  circuit, 
my  friend,W(î  altogether  impassalile  in  places.  Ànd 
this  récent  storm  mwst  bave  used  them'  up  bl^ly." 

«Efe  you  think,"  Farrar  says,  with  a  hard/breath, 
,hat  there  is  really  hope  ?  Six  days  on  that  barren  bill- 
^  wjthout  shelter  or  food "    He  breaks  off.' 


wkh 

'4' 

pberr 


mon 


bout  shelter,  perbaps,  certain ly  not  without  food» 
Raspb^hes  abound — not  very  satisfactory  diet,  but 
equal  to  sustaining  life  for  a  few  days.  And  no  doubt 
they  brougbt  a  luncheon  basket  with  them— ail  do,  who 
are  pidnicing  or  berrying  there.  Hope  for  the  1 
ami.  It  is  trué,  we  may  find  them  in  pitiàble  pi 
also,  I  feel  cure,  we  shalf  fiiid  them  aliye."     \ 

"  Heav^Q  grant  it  !    W/We  can  but  get  them 
fore  the  dear  old  doctor  rfeturns^-^^— " 

Hft;4nterrupts  himself  again,  too  anxious  le  put  hii» 
thoughts  into  words.  /The  daylight  is  rapidly  fading 
ou^-;pna  a  brilliant  night  is  beginn^g,  moonlit,  star- 
lit,  calm.'  The  sea  runs/hiffh  ;  thev  can  hear.  long  before 


tPèy  apprbàch,  tHè  thunder  of  the^^  s^rf  at  the  base  of 


Château  Dieu  ;  but  the  men  who  bend  to  the  oars  with 
•uch  right  good  will  are  men  who  will  effect  a  landing. 


5^ 


"A 


t'Umàfmm^iiim^yii^-M 


^l7 


«74 


K-:  K 


".    ^P^"^ 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


Vi 


i\ 


"We  will  disperse  in    différent  directions,   and 
If  they  are  hère,  and  alive,  we  will  find  them 


if  landin^  be  within  the  limit  of  possibility.  Sugàr 
Scoop,  t)6o,  when  they  reach  it,  seems  fairly  free  of  reefs 
and  roLiers.  They  steer  with  care  ;  a  great  in-washing 
wave  oiirries  them  with  it,  up  and  in  on  its  crest.  ïwo 
of  thetn  spring  out,  up  to  their  waists  in  the  water,  and 
draw  the  big  bôat  high  and  dry  on  the  sands.  The  land-  / 
ing  is  effected.  V 

"And  no  such  troublesome  matter  after  ail,"  remarks 
M.  Desereaux.     "Thèse  fellows  know  their  business-r- 
they  are  boatmen  born.    Now  to  find  the  children.    Her^ 
is  the  path,  M.  Farrar — you  hâve  forgotten,  doubtlesSjin. 
all  thèse  years.     Follow  me." 

"  Make  her  fast,  and  corne  on,  my  friends,"  Mr.  Farrar 
fiays. 
shout. 
surely  in  an  hour." 

"  Ah,  m'sieur,  Chapeau  Dieu  is  a  big  place,"  one  says. 
"We  willdoourbest." 

They  secure  the  boat  with  a  chain,  and  file  up  the 
steep  path  after  their  leaders.  It  is  a  path  some  two 
miles  long,  straggling  and  winding,  in  serpentine  fash- 
ion,  to  a  greén»plateau  on  the  mountain  side. 

Hère  they  pause  for  breath,  Silence  is  about  them, 
night  is  around  them— silence  and  night,  broken  onlyjby 
the  dull  booming  of  the  surf.  '  So  still  it  is  thaT  the 
cedars  and  spruces  stand  up  black  and  motionless,  like 
sentinels  guarding  in  grim  array  their  rocky  fortress  6yçr 
the  sea.     And  then  M.  Desereaux  uplifts  his  voice  : 

"  René— Snowball— Jean  !  My  children,  answer.  We 
are  hère."  'i-. 

But  only  thé  écho  of  his  own  shouf  comes  back  to 

him  down  the  rocky  slopes. 

"  Let  us  go  farther  up,"  suggests  Mr.  Farrar.    "  They 

may  be  near  the  sutnmit.    They  may  be  on  the  other 
.^à^'i 

"They  will  hâve  landed  at  Sugar  Scoop,  surely," 
Desereaux  responds;  "there  is  no  other  aafe  laading. 


f*ivt:4è^,'i  vkiiJ>'t«^s. 


}'^  '  /-  ' 


-;4tJ> 


MONSIEUR    PAUL, 


*75 


But,  of  course,  thcy  went  in  search  of  bernes,  and  would 
not  remain  near  the  landing.  The  ras^berry  thicket  is 
over  yonder,  let  us  try  it.  Some  of  you,  my  men,  take 
the  other  side." 

So,  thcy  disperse,  Farrar  and  Desereaux  going  toward 
the  right,  two  men  to  the  lef t,  two  more  mounting  toward 
the  summit.  «> 

It  is  ii^describably  lonely,  and  even  in  the  pallid 
moonlight,  the  wild  sea  sparicling  in  the  white^immer, 
the  unutterable  hush  and  solemnity  of  night  overlytng 
ail.  ,  '  ~ 

They  reîtbh  the  raspberry  thicket  and  pause. 

"Shout  with  m^"  says  M.  Desereaux,  "it  is  possible 
they  may  be  somewnere  near." 

They  shout,  an^  shout,  until  they  are  hoarse,but  onl7 
the  mefencholy  écho  of  their  shouts  corne  back. 

.  F'ar  up  they  can  hear  the  boatmen  calling,  too,  and 
tÈaliing,  also,  in  vain.     A  great  fear  falis  upon  them. 

"Surely  if  they  were  in  the  mountain  at  ail — and  a|tye 
— they  would  hear,"  Mr.  Farrar  says  ;  "  let  us  try  once 
more."  '*-* 

"  Hush  !"  cries  M.  Desereaux,  clutching  his  artn. 
"  Listen  !     Do  you  hear  nothing  ?    Listen  !" 

Jhey  bend  their  ears,  and — yes — faint,  aod  far  off, 
therè  comes  to  them  a  cjry-^^  human  cry. 

"That  is  no  night-hawk,  no  s|6a-bird  !^'  Desereaux  ex-J 
claims;  "it  is.a  voice  respondinjgvtor^our  shout    Xhank 
God!    Tryitagain." 

Onoe  more  they  raise  tfaeir  voices  and  shout  with 
fnight  and  main.  ' 

"Rene^SnowbaUyj^ny!   Whereareyou?  Call!*- 

And  once  again^  |^ti!nc«  though  faint,  thajt  answèring 
cry  comes  back^  '^  ^  < 

**  They  are  found  !  they^are  found  !"  Desereaux  shouts 


exuîtingly.    "  Thisway,  Farrar  ;  thfs  way,  my  men.    Wo 
hâve  them  !    Dieu  merci  J    It  is  ail  right  J" 


,^iS|?- 


V) 


o  ,  '-jl 


1^--' 


i        .     V- 


/,•    H* 


176 


MONSIEUR    PAtrZ. 


.il*- 


rnJ!    P'-^-'S".'»  the  direction  of  tlie  feebie  ery-  it 
cornes  agam  evèn  as  they  go,  and  guides  Ihem.     ^  ' 

Ali  nght,  my  cliildren  !••  iie calls  clieerily  back  "we 

f  we  wuu/with  ""  ""  ^  ^°'"'  ''^''"'  P°-  '^''«  °"<=- 
f  we  wiii  Ce  with  you  in  a  moment  " 

qni'K',/°u""^'^^°™^^-  Farrarhas  cauRhfc.  it  is 
Snowball  who  is  in  the  arms  of  M.  Desereaux.^'nd  the 

Tnh  ""'m^'u  ^°^^^"^  '^^"^  close,  hard,  joyfully  and-! 
Johnny  blushes  ail  the  rêst  of  his  life  tô  remembi  it  he 
is  bemgabsolutely  kisse.^y  the  bearded  lips  of  Paul  FaÏ 

dian,     how  am  I  rejoiced  !     Snowball,  ma  p^tite-my  aa^ 
gel— ho w  is  it  with  you  ?"  /'    '^    my  an- 

"Put^  me  down,"  answers  a  weak-oh,  such  à  poor 
lutle  weak  voice-but  faintly  imperious  s  ill.  4ut  me 
dowtf.  please,  at  once.    I  must-hold-Keïié  "  ' 

"Ah,  René  !-where  is  René  ?    What-^at-what-" 

eut  of  h'^''''''"'P''"f '^"^^"^^^""^°»-  Sh^hasslippecf 
1  î.  M  ^^'■"''"'^"^  ^°^^»  «"  the  groi^a^ain  and 
1  ed  back  into  her  >p  the  head  of  ftn3^Tsh^  was 
sitting  when  they  found  her,  so  she  had  beeVsittinl Tor 
Urs,  wàitihfefor  death^hus-Rene  in  her  lap  "^  ""' 
Mn  Farrar  Ifets  go  Johnny,  and  is  kneeling  beside  thé- 
prostrate  boy.     One  glance  only  he  gives  to  Sball 

Kene  s  dark  head  lymg  on  her  knees.    She  does  not  fook  ." 
athim;  she  seems  past  care,  past  hope,  pist  hejp    she^ 
^U^her  mournful  eyes  neveHeaving"  Re^ne's  derthli^; 


'<>>  1 


m  V 


>  • ..  .* 


■^ 


♦.  •» 


é 


I  .r 


"  Whai  is  it  ?"  Desereàux  asks,  "  not- 


tt'.3'.i^-.i'.-j/¥=_-^, >*.■..  ,j 


if.^t'^",  .  iS„Tâf, 


«,;■*' 


•    «l 


h 


■fl 


?'  î' 


S'-^ 


■r-  '  r--^- 


,  •  J- 


T»;  -/r-. 


/C^v 


■  "î-,  'f;^p.  V' 


:  ■ 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


177 


3  tiitie 
beforéS 
rrificd 
sëîzed 


it— •'      « 

and 

was     f 
for 

!  ther'  -■■..^f' 
Dali/    * 
self, 
bok  » 
she^ 
likp       .* 


"No,"  with  a  quick  breath',  "L  think  not— I  hope  not 
— something  terribly  like  it,  thbugh:'"-He  bas  svvooned 
through  exhaustion,  I  take  it.  He  is  very  far  gone.  You 
will  carry  hitn  to  the  boat,  my  good  feilows— we  will, 
carry  them  ail:  None  of  thèse  children  càn  walk. 
SnowbaJl,  my  little  Otie,  corne  to  me^give"  us  René.  I 
will  carry  you.     ComeJ' 

He  gathers  her  in  his  arms— a  light  weight— a  feathei 

weight  now.     She  makesr  no  résistance  ;  she  lets  Renq 

go  ;  her  head  drops  helplessly  on  his  shoulder  ;  her  e)  i  » 

close.     The  men  corne  after   with    the   two  boys,  and 

>   îlE^hnny,  even  in  this  suprême  hour,  is  conscious  of  the 

„     indignity  of  being  carried  lilfe  a  baby,  and  makes  a  feeblc 

efifor't  to  assert  himself,  and  his  legs,.  It  is  of  no  use, 

however,  he  is  unable  to  walk,  and  gives  up,-after  a  few 

yards,  with  the  very  worst  possible  grg^ce.  '"Tor  René,  he 

lies  like  pne  dead     .  *• 

♦    They  reach  the  boat,  get   the  young  people  in,  and 

proQeed   to  administer  weak   brandy  and  water.     The 

I"  stimulant  acts  well  with   Johnn'y,  who  sits  up.after  a 

*    swallow  or  two,  and  ^egins  to  fullyfeomprehend  what  is 

taking  place.     They  are  being  re&Gued— a  tact  that  only 

Xî^early  dawns  upon  him  now. 

j^«iSriow6all,  too,  revives  somewhat,  but^îie  will  Uu^k  al 
n6  one,  care  for  nothing,  save  René. 

"  We  will  do,"  she  whispers  ;  ''ffive     sontething  — to 
him.     Make  René — open — lijs  éye^P 

E^sier  said  than  done.  ,  Allthaéls  possible  to  do,  Mr. 


•5>»..,"i 


Fairar  does,  the  stimulant  is  pjaced  btUween  his  locked 
^  ,  lïis  hands  ancTface.  are  bathed  aiul  chafed.^but  ihe 


teeï 


•.&ï 


rigid-lip  remairt  clpse!^  the  dark  e>es  retftain  shu\,  ihé 
«bà'hds  a*id  face  icy  cold— the  ghaStly  hue  «»t  death  lë.;vtg 


*.Jttot. 


aStlj 


you  talk,  Jôhrtfcv?     Don't  try  if  if  hnrts-you 


% 


Hqw  is-  it  that  we  fi  nd^f^  René  so'^Jucb  wyrsc  than  y  pu»"'  '^» 
.tWitJ?"asl^.Paul'Fdrrar. .  \    '    *  ^  .       "  ; 

î    Johnn)^îriestojteri.    "  Re^i^  stïM-fw!  hiilisètf  to  fèe^  i^^^ 


V 


%'■* 


€ 


".fP>:/--  »  %>■ 


«.vl 


■^••i; 


3s««yr»t_»£t«B„«.:  -j^,^. 


178 


MONSIEUR    PAUL. 


iSnovvball  ;  never  slept  at  ail,  hardljr  ;  was  thinly  cladl, 

and  so,  and  so -" 

"Succumbed  first  — yes,  I  see.  Brave  boy  — good 
K^ne  '  And  he  is  not  as  strong  as  you,  Johnny — never 
will  be.  But  don't  wear  that  frightened  face,  dear  boy, 
we  will  bring  him  round  yet.  Once  in  Ma'am  Weesy's 
kitchen,'with  warm  blankets  and  hot  grog,  we  will  hâve 
René  back,  please  Heaven,  and  able  to  talk  to  your  father 
when  he  returns  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  ail  about  it." 
Johnny  utters  a  cry. 
"  Papa  not  home  yet  ?"  ' 

"Not  home  yet,  old  boy— for  which  let  us  be  duly 
thankful.  Think  w^iafcâ  story^  you  will  hâve  to  tell  him 
to-morrow  after  Ruiner  —  after  dinner,  Johnny  !  You 
haven't  dined  lately,  hâve  you  ?  What  a  story  it  wîll  be  * 
for  the  rest  of  your  life— six  days  and  nights  in  Chapeau 
Dieu  !  Why,  you  will  awake  and  find  yourself  famous— 
find  greatness  thruSt  upon  you  !  For  Snowball,  hère, 
she  wiU  be  the  most  pronounced  heroine  of  modem 
times." 

But  Snowbatt  cares  not,  heeds  not,  hears  not.  René 
lies  there,  lifeless,  and  rescue  or  death— what  are  eitber 
now? 

They  talk  no  more  ;  Johnny,  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  finds  the  effort  too  painful,  and  he  lies  back  and 
drops  asleep.     He  is  only  wakened  to  find  himself  in 
some  one's  arms  a  second  time,  and  being  carried  some- 
where,  wakes  for  a  moment,  then  is  heavily  oflF  again. 
Presently  he  is  lying  on  sopiething  soft  and  warm,  and 
some  one  is  crying  over  him  aïkd  kissing  him— Ma'am 
Weçey,  he  dimly  thinks,  and  even  in  this  state  of  coma, 
is  ^eepily  consdous  oî  feeling  cross  about  it,  arid  wish- 
ing  sbe  wouldn't.     Then,  9<M|èthing  sti^^,  and  sweet, 
a«d  delicious,  is  given  him  in  a  spoon,  M^tea,  maybê  ; 
Ubeu  &ieep  uiice  luore,  SJeep  1«^,  Wessel^ëèp  life^gî^"^ 
•ing,  and  it  is  high  noon  of  anotiier  day  before  he  opent 
his  eyes  ^n  oa  t^  ipw*i  «f  jp^e. 


\ 


>^- 


^ 


.  ,jiii»*^>Mi^L'^A 


î^r^À&iâ,^  ^        ii^Mt. 


T., 


"■*    «l 


'f  '  ■    l>i/'    . 


clacl, 


SNOWBALVS    HERO, 


179 


x... 


^. 


^^ifcî-^«. 


CHAPTER  XV.     - 
SNOWBALL'S    HERO. 


^ 


|IGH  noon.  A  sunny,  breezy,  July  day — hop 
vines  and  scarlet  runners  fluttering  outside 
the  muslîn  curtains  of  the  >  open  window,  a 
sweet,  sait,  strong  sea-wind  coming  in,  and 
it  is  his  own  iron  bed  in  which  he  lies,  his  own  attic 
room  m  which  he  rests— it  is  Isle  Perdrix— it  is  home—\t 
is  W«esy  whose  shrill  tones  he  hears  down-stairs,  and  it 
is — it  is  his  father,  whose  face  bends  above  him,  as  he 
awakes. 

"  Papa  !"  he  cries  out. 

Two  thin  arms  uplîft,  a  great  sob  chokes  faim,  then 
there  is  a  long,  long,  long  silence. 

"My  boy!  my  boy!  my  Johnijpr  !"  Dr.  Macdonald 
says,  and  then  there  is  silence  agaiiy.        j?  ; 

But  Johnny  recovers,  and  his  first  distinct  thought  is 

— that  he  is  awfully  hungry  !     His  hdllow,  buf  always 

,  beautiful  eyes,  look  at  his  father,  then,  around  the  room. 

"Papa."  ^'        . 

"  My  son."  > 

"I  want  something  to  eat." 

Dr.  Macdonald  laughs,  but  a  trifle  huskily.  Instantly 
a  china  bowl  and  a  silver  spoon  are  in  Johnny's  hands. 

"What  isthis,  pana?" 

"Weesy^  very  best,  yery  strongest  broth,  Eat  and 
fear  not.  A  chicken  is  preparing,  Johnny — such  a  fine, 
Cat  fellow— ail  for  you  !  You  shall  hâve  a  breast  and  a. 
liver  wing  in  an  hour.  And  a  glass  of  such  old  pcçt  v^ 
yoii  ncvcr  tastod  1" ^     p 

johnny  rolls  his  eyes  up  in  one  raptui4us  glance,  but 
pauses  not  for  idle  speech.    There  is  no  time.    Ali  at' 
once  he  pauses.  \ 


i .t  ■ 


i  il 


*  ..'■• 


/.  ■ 


l8o 


SNOWBALVS    HERO. 


Nà 


"Oh-h!  papa— René!" 

"Is  doing  wdl,  thanks  to  the  good  God  and  the  un- 
tiring  care  of  my  good  Paul  Farrar^  I  hâve  but  this 
moment  left  his  bedside.  J  am  now  going  back.  You 
can  spare  me,  my  dear  ?"  . 

■  "  Oh,  yes,  papa,"  briskly  re-attacking  the  bowl.  '«  I  can 
làpare  you/\  . 

'^  Silence  agaiij  for  a  space~the  bowl  veiy  near  the 
bottom  by  this  time,  and  Dr/Macdonald,  smiling  dovvn 
on  his^son.    Johnny  looks  up,  -, 

"  And  Snowball,  papji  ?"  *  -  "    »  - 

..  "  Y^*"^  ^^^^'"''^'^ '^®"' ï  ^"^  ^aPPy  to  say.  Jviy.sweet 
iittle  Snowball  !  Johnny  l  Johnny  !  hôw  can  we  ever  be 
thankful  enough?"-  ^ 

.    No.responsefrom  Jolbrrjr^the  spoon  and  the  bottom 
onhe  bowl  clinking  by  this  time. 
\       "  René  wiil  not  be  ill  ?" 

"  "  We  do  not  icnow— w6  hope  notT  He  speaks  little— 
he  18  too  far  spent,  but  he  takes  what  we  give  him  aïid 
sleeps  a  gfeat  deal.  Ih  that,  and  in  his  youth,  we  hôpe. 
If  Heaven  had  not  sent  Paul  Farnir,  and  hiy  very  goôd 
fnend,  M.Desereaux,  last  night/Renei  would  never  hâve 
seen  morning."  ,  »,^ 

Dr.  Màcddnald's  voice  breaks— he'turns  and  walks  to 
the  window.  He  is  a  tall.  Stooping,  gentle-looking  old 
man,  with  silvery  hair,  and  beard,  and  face,  and  eyes  soft, 
gray,  and  wistful,  ejcactly  like  Johnny's. 

"René  is  a  brick,  papa,"  cries  Johnny,  warmly  ;  "an 
out-and-out  trump  !  You  would  not  think  he  had  it  in 
him.  He  starved  himself  to  look  after  Snowball  ;  he 
told  us  stories,  he  read  tp  us  while  he  could  speak  Pana. 
may  Igetup?"  ^  ^ 

**  If  you  feel  able,  my  èon  ;  but  I  would  advisc       ■!' 
**Oh  !  I  feel  ail  right— a  gi^nt  refreshed.    I  cah't  lie 
1101  tf.        ^^ "^ " "—^ — 


Weesy  coming  in  and—"   «  Kièftng  me  e^rery  minute,'» 
is,his  disgusted  tbought,  but  he  ^es^ina  it.    "Pleas^ 


,«• . 


«1 


^^Ck^..-.,'  '-  '    '     -  ■■■■■"        '  ■       '■-' 


■'    \ 


■■,*■  -  '• 


:s!.ïï.,. 


y-» 


""*«**«■  ,-!% 


ir      t^>  ♦  ,1^" 


f  • 


I 

r 


^NOWBALVS    HERO. 


i8i 

m?.LÎf^^'  "J^'  P^^^'  ^""^  ^°  *^°^"  ^    ï'^1  be  as  careful  of 
mj'self  as  if  I  were  eggs." 

His  father  srriîles. 

"  Very  well  my  lad  ;  dress  and  go  down.    TakelVour 

"yt  "''^'""^•"  ^-  ^^"^  -^^^  --  -  yoùand 

.  l'Papa,  may  1-1  should  like  to  sce  Snowball  ?" 

h.  H  ^""^'^"'^r'  /^^^^^'  presently  ;  let  her  sleep.    She  will 
be  down,  I  think,  before  night  "  V         ^  wiu 

"And  René " 

"are  of  René  ^T""""""-     ^'  ^'^"  wTtake  great 
care  of  René.     I  am  going  to  him  now." 

^I>r.  Maedonald  goes,  and  Johnny,  vèry  gingerly  and 

rlTr^r"\'"'  ^  surprising  sensé  ofleakness^ 
proceeds  to  dress  himself  and  tmvel  down-stairs       ^ 

It  ,s  rather  more  like  a  ghost  of  lohnny,  than  that 
br  sk  young  gentl^an  himself,  this  wan  lad,  with  thc 
hollow  eyes  and  pallid  face. 

Weesy   shrieks   with  delight  af  .sight   of    him,   and^ 
makes  a  rush  to  clasp  him  precipitately  ta  herbreast,  but 
anS  alarm.""^'  ^'"^  "  '^^^''  ^'^^  une^ected  rapidity 

"No,  you   don't!"  he    says  ;    "keep   oflF!     JVe  had 

night,  and  theff  you,  and  now  again-but  you  sha'h't  if 

!   f  t    ^""^  ^  ^**^°^  ^^^'  ^«"'t  yo».  Weesy  ?" 
And  Weesy  laughs,  and  cries,  and  yields.    The  mis- 

thAt^'^^^t'  ^^^^  breezy  wind^i^;  and  looks  eut  over 
h.L  IV  ^  ^"'*^"'  *^*  ^°"8:h  path  beyond,  the  beach 
sign  of  igflnitg  />r^n«-»r.»    ...»  ■"  6      *• 


"tg  confertf^ 


**ij. 


Ooe  might  fancy  he  had  had  enough  6f  the  «a,  but 
^ot  so.  John  Maedonald  will  never  h^ve  pnoughlf  the 
bnght,  watery  wx»rld  he  loves.    If  orily  the  bJL^^» 


C.^>'ju>ywJ>.'W«^9M  ■"^mA 


ié^ 


■» 


.^,  'A 


mi  ■'  iiinr^ 


183 


SifOWBALVS    HERO. 


—but  he  must  not  think  of  her—xh^XQ  may  bé  other  bat- 
teaux  in  time. 

^        He  is  at  home— they  are  ail  safe  ;  that  is  eiiough  for 
_u.one  day.     And  presentiy  cornes  Ma'àm  Weesy,  with  the 
^icken  and  wine,  and  a  book  of  sea-stories,  and  Johimy 
-^-nly   munehes,    and  reads,    and  time  passes,  and  at 


^^e  starts  up  with  a  weak  shout,  for  there  Is  m!  Paul 
•-«^^orting  Snowbaii,  looking  pallid  and  pathetic,  bu| 

rwise  not  so  much  the  worse  for  her  week  on  thl'' 
barren  furze  of  Chapeau  Dieu.     Her  blue  eyes  look  like 
^Bure  moons,  in  her  white  small  face.  |^^ 

*-Oh,  Johnny  !"  she  solemnly  says. 
It  is  an  adjuration  with  which  Johnny  is  tolerably  fa- 
mihar,  émotion  of  any  sort  evoking  it  some  sixty  times 
on  an  average,  per  day.     He  laughs   in  response,  and 
looks  shyly  at  her  escort. 

"Johnny,  dear  old  chap,"  that  gentl<^an  says,  and 
gives  his  hand  a  cordial  grasp,  "don't  stop.  Peg  away 
at  the  chicken,  and  give  some  to  SnowbaMy  It  does  me 
good  to  see  yt)u.  "  -  - 

"  How  does  Kene  get  on,  siit  ?"  '  -, 

"Ah,  not  so  Well  ;  René  i§  hot  and  feverish,  and  a 
tnfle  light-hearfed.     Fancy  his  giying  in,  while  this  little, 
yellow-haired  îassie  holds  out  so  well  " 
*      "It  was  my  fault,"  says  Snovvball,  in  pénitent  teara 
I  know  now  he  starved  himself  far  me.     And  he  made 
me  mmd  him.     I  didn't  want  tp— now,  did  I,  Johnny?" 
U^  '  "  René  is  a  young  gentleman  who  will  always  make 

people  raind  him.     There  îs  dothinç  to  cry  for.  Petite— 
he  18  not  going  to  die,  not  a  bit  ôf  it.    Eat  yoer  chicken 
and  dry  your  eyes— he  may  hâve  auber  a  h«rd  bout  of  it 
»  for  a  week  or  so,  but  he  will  coac  round  like  tbc  bcro 


#- 


■'m 


«ï.^/***^  i^arrw  provQfi  a  true   ^ôp&et,  màj  Ae 

bout  ••  is  rather  barder  than  eren  ^  aatictpa|^ 
ie  quii^eiinoi»  at  Uraes,  Mtà.  aft»iFiîi%«f  à 


—  .1? 


ÀM 


..^i4i^MÎp^.^HiBiHB^Piiii^ 


■<■   *.*^;^^^ 


i-y'y 


i,3î> 


SNOWBALrS   JÏEÉÔ. 


183 


Dieu,  and  the  storm,  and  the  bower,  and  the^berries,  and 

^  fn  î.Tk  ""  k^^  '"  V  ^^^'"^  imagination  of  that  luscious 
fruit,  than  he  everXdid  in  reality,.  and  sings  scraps  of  the 

hlZ^f  tf  °^"\  ^"^  ^»^^^«   Shakespeare,  and  conducts 
hm^se  f  altQgether  m  a  noisy  and  objectiotiable  manner. 

'  fahhfuirn         .''  '^"?  ™"^^  '^^^  danger,  and  he  is^o 
faithfully  nursed,  so  devotedly  attended,  that  he  must  ■ 
perforée  furn  tbe  sharp  cWner  of  the  fever.  and  corne 

!nTM'  f  '^''''V^"^  clear-headed,  but  deplorably  weak 
and  helpless,.  at  the  encj  of  seven  or  eight  days 

y.,  "^"^^r"  ^""^  ■^'^^^""y  ^°°k  as  well  as  if  it  had  never 
happened,  he  says,  langiiidly,  wit>h  a  resentful  senSe  of 
mjury  upon  him.     «  What  a  muff  I  must  be '" 

They  do,vindeed,  look  as  well,  as  bright,  as  fresh  as 
plump,  as  though  thèse  six  days  on  the  desolate  moun- 
ta.n  side  were  but  a  dream.  Johnny-by  this  time  is  de- 
cidedly  proud  of  his  performance,  tliough  a  trifle  bor^ 
too,  by  the  questions  with  which  he  is  plied  whenever' hé 
appears  at  St.  Gildas.  The  Boule-de^neige  is  safe  at  her 
moonngs  none^e  worse  for  her  playful  little  escapadej 
René   s  au  right,  M.  Paul  is  hère,  and  Johriny  is  happy. 

W.H  V  f.  ''^u'^  ^"^  ^'^^^y  ^"^y^  Snowball  has  de- 
voted  herself  to  the  patient  with  a  meekness,  a  docilitv 
a  sweetness  almost  alarming  in  its  self-abnlgation 

♦..  Tt^  f°  ^l""'  '^"^'  '°  ^'™'  ^"*'&s  ^i°»  his  beef- 
teas  and  chicken  broths,  and  toast,  and  water,  and  other 
nastiness  as  René  calls  it,  and  watches  him  eat  and 
drink,  and  recover,  with  the  devotedness  of  a  mother' 
Kene  submits  to  be  petted,^nd  cuddlcd,  ànd  mademudi 
of  for  a  few  days-she  keeps  Weesy  out,  and  thatbl 
greàt  pomt-accepts  her  society,  listcns  with  lanVuidN 
graciôusness  to  her  gossip,  lets  her  read  him  to  sSp, 
l^s  h*r  fan  of!  the  Aies,  and  adorn  his  chamber  with 
flowprs.  and  rh^n— oi|  • 


-UL-a> 


flatly  déclares  he  wiU  hatre  ^o  more  of  it  !  Strength  and 
his  normal  state  are  return!*g,  and  this  phase  of  super- 
Mtural  goQdness  and  calm  cornes  as  mi^  be  expcctwi. 


_„M  T    ,~^    ^ 


i'H 


184 


I'! 


SJ^OWBÀzrs   HERO 


to  a  sudden  and  violent  end.  He  isn't  a  baby-he  won't 
svvallovv  gruel  and  disgusting  "  beef-tea  ;  he  won't  be 
<ucked  in  o  nig-hts  and  ha»ve  Snowball  popping  in  and 
eut   ot   lus   room   like  a  Jack-in-a-box    whenever    çhe 

^  ^^î?  .  u^'  ^^'  ^°  ^'"-^  -^^^""3^'  ^«  «he  used  to,  she/  , 
^vould  rkther,  he  knows-she  needn't  -victîhiize  herself 
because  he  picked  a  few  raspberries  fôr  herlhere  on  the 
mou.ntain  !     Ajid  ^he  isn't  much  of  a  com^nion,  any- 
way     he  would  far  and  away  rathertalk  to -M.  Paiil' 
Which  ,s  ungratefui,  to.say  the  least,  after  -the  superhu?* 
man  efforts  she  has  been  making  to  amuse  him  during    < 
the  past  seven  days.     And  Snowbal^,  deeply  hurt,.bu1         ^ 
reheved  al    the  same,  does  give  it  up,  does  resun.;  the 
Society  of  Johnny,  and  is  prepared.  the  instant  René  is 
strong  enough  for  battle,  to  résume  war  to  the  knife  as 
01  yore. 

M.  Paul  is  a  prime  favorite  in  the  household.  Dr. 
Macdonad  beams  in  his  presence-,he  isthe,idol  of 
Maam  Weesy  s  heart  ;  the  boys  look  upon  him  with 
eyes  of  envy  and  admiration-a  man  who  has  been  everv- 
where,  and  seen  every  thing.  and  place,  and  people. 

Snowball  falls  in  love  with  him,  of  course-that  goel»^ 
withput  saying-and  is  never  out  of  his  présence  a  mo- 

tTtt  r  !r  f  t"";  ^"  ^"  ''•     ^"""  ^'^  Tim  succumbs  c^ 

to  the  spell  of  the  charmer,  yields  to  the  fascination  of  M      '" 

^  t.  ^  l^  ^"^^'  ^"^  ^*^^^'  ^"^  ^°^^^'  ^"d  «Id  Titn's  bat-      i 
ter^  heart  is  not  over  susceptible.    He  has  nevir,  within 
Tnfj  l""'  been  known  to  Invite  a  man  into  his  domicile 
to  partake  of  a  dhrop  of  dhrink  before 

Paul  aad  Snowball,  down  on  the  sands.  he  reclininè  his 
long  length  upon  the  rank  reeds,  and  warm  ^aving  sca- 
side  grasses,  h,s  straw  hat  pulled  half  Uer  his  «yS.    J,   ' 
golden^haze  rests  on  the  bay,  sails  com  J  a^  ^o  tLou.t 


as  through  a  gloiy-Hishing-boats  tàke  oti^a  nimbiir 
around  theiri>rown  rails.    There  is  the  faintcst  bnme"- 


.AJk-^i's^  y  , 


'À*L 


-'%'■ 


^""' 


**>*   , 


SJVOlfBAZZ'S    HERO. 


'35 


little  wa^elets  lap  upon  the^white  sand,  uîe  beautiful  sea 
^ooks  as  though  it  could  neyer  be  cruel 

,.,  ,^^.^^^"^^  '^^V'"^  ^^°"^-     -^^^""y  has  just  left  them; 
Old  Tim  is  crooning  to   himself  up  in  the  light-house 
near,  as  he  pohshes  his  lamps.     It  is  full  three  weeks 
s.nce  the   rescue.     René   is  him^elf  again,   arîd  happy 
among  his  beloved   books.     Snowball^its  on.  a  rocky 
seat  her  ^Uor  hat  Well  on  the  back  ci  her  head  as  usua^ 
her  face  frankly  and  fearlessly  exposed  to  sea-side  sun  " 
and  wind      Vanity  is  not  one  of  this  young  person's 
many  faU.ngs;   freckles   and  blisters,  and  sunburn  are 
matters  of  profoundest  unconcern,  at  this  period  of  her 
career^    He  has  been  telfing  her  of  some  of  his  travels 
and  adventures  m  far-ofif  lands,,  thrilling  enough  and 
narrow  enough  somb  of  them.     No  romance  ever  writ- 
ten  it  seems  to  this  small  ^irl,  as  she  listens,  could  be 
half  so  wonderful,  no  hero  half  so  heroic 

_But  gradu^lly  silence  h^s  fallen,  and  M.  Paul,  frôm 
under  hi^  wide  straw  hat,  looks  with  dark,  dreamin^ 
eyes  out  oyer  thai  yellow  li^ht  on  the  «Et,  ' 

^Èowball  steals  a  glance  at  him.    O^at  is  he  think- 
ing    she  wonders.     YLçy^  very  hairdsème  he  is!    How 
broVn,' how  strorig,  hour  big;  how  manly  !     Of  what,  of 
Whom  ,s  he  thinlcing,  as  he  lies  hère,  with  that  grave, 
^teady  glance  ?    A«d  what  is  he  to  her^he  who  brought 
^^r  hère  ail  those  years  ago  ?    Why,  iÀ  ail  this  romance 
of  wandenng  and  strange  adventures,  has"  there  never    ^ 
been  a  hero.ne  ?     Or  has  there  been  onè,  and  he  wiU  not    - 
ell  the  story  to  a  little  girl  of  twelve?    There  iè  some- 
thmg  she  longs  to  ask  him-has  ofteng|ongfed  of  late     ' 
but  she  is  shy  with  him  ;  somehow,in  f  ite  of  his  gen' 
tléness,^  be  is  formidable  in  her  eyes.     She  makes  one  or  ■ 
l:^^^^'  "  ^^^  time.or  never  I-^slop^  bl.shes. 


K' 


.^ 


*^M.  Paul  !" 

"Pptite?' 

He  ^«ukes  from  his  dream  with 


>**.4'C'jdfci-%» 


!  ; 


11 


.ri 


tfiid'thein  smilet 


»**  \ 


# 


f 


,^f> 


<* 


i8^ 


SNOWBALVS    JSERO,  ^ 


* 


slowly"  to    see    the  ros/  tide  moiinting    to    her    eye- 
brows.  ' 

"I—I  want  to  ask  you  something."  You   will   not 
mmd?' 

"Mind?"   still  smiling  amusedly.    "How?    I   don't 
understand." 

"  Yc^will  not  be— mad  ?" 

"Maîtfi,^e  laughs.     "OÔended  with  you.  Petite? 
No  ;  that  could  not  be."  n; 

^    "M.     Paul"— a    pause.      "You->you  brought    me 

"  Nine— more  than  nine,  years  ago.    Ma  foi/  how 
time  Aies  !     Yes."  ,  «»  ^  *» 

^  Another  pause.  Snpwball  pulls  up  the  rank,  flame- 
colored  sedge-flowers  waving  in  the  win^,  and  finds 
gomg  on  hardj^.  The  dark,  amused  eyes  .smile  up 
at  her,  and  in^nHKte  her. 

"  I  wish-^  I^Wyou  would  tell  me  something  about 
myself. .  I  âmm§iovf  anything.     I  think  sometimes  it 
is  not  fair  to  n^*^    I  think  a  great  deal,  M.  Paul,  about 
U,  and  it  makes  me  unhappy." 
Her  voice  falters  ;  she  stops. 

"  Unhappy,  Snowball  ?  Ah  !  I  am  sorry  for  that  " 
_  "  I  am  not  like  other  girls-I  feel  it-they  know  it. 
They  ask  me  questions  over  there  at  school  that  I  can't 
answer.  They  whisper  about  it,  and  tell  ail  the  new 
girls— that  I  hâve  no  father  or'  mother,  or  home  of  my 
own,  or  relations  at  ail.  And  I  think  it  is  too  bad.  Eveiy 
one  IS  kind  énough,  but  still  it  is  hard.  And  I  want  to 
know  who  I  am,  M.  Paul,  please." 
Silence. 

The  steady  glance  of  M.  Paul,  out  of  which  ail  amuse- 
ment has  died,  turns  from  her  and  goes  back  once  more 
to  that  amber  glory  of  sea  and  sky.     The  grave,  bronzed 

lace JoQks  as  it  looked  bcfore  she  spoke^t^ttr^ônght^^ 
fui,  and  a  little  sad.  '         ^         • 

She  has  asked  a  harder  questfôn,  it  may  he,  than  sKe 


"v, 


Jr 


'H        lî     f'      ■l*P* 


SNOWBALVS    HERO.  187 

knows,    «Hè  is  silent  so  long  tliat  she  breaks  bat  again 
herself : 

"  Dr.  Macdonald  can  tell  me  nothing— he  would,  if 
he  coqld.     Everybody  is  good  to  mè,  but— oh,  M.  Paul, 
,•  tell  me — tell  me  if  you  can  !" 

"  Snowball,  my  dear  little  one,  what  |Ép  I  tell  y6u?" 
"  Hâve  I  a  name— a  father— a  motherf  What  is  the 
reason  I  am  hidden  away  hère — as  if  the  peoplè  who  pay 
"  for  me  were  ashamed  of  mie  ?  What  hâve  I  doné  ?  T hey 
never  write,  they  never  send  or  come  to  see  me.  No  one 
seems  to  know  or  care  anything  about  me  in  ail  the 
whole  world  !"         -     " 

A  sob,  but  Snowball  checks  it  by  a  great  effort.  She 
bas  thought  this  ail  out,  and  will  not  distress  M.  Paul 
by  crying. 

"  Dear  child,  we  ail  love  you — you  know  thât." 
"  Yes— hère.  You  are  ail  good.  But  there — who  are 
they  ?  Why  do  they  cast  me  off  and  disown  me  ?  Oh,  I 
cannot  tell  you  ail  I  feel,  or  ask  questions  as  I  ought, 
but  won't  you  tell  me  ail  the  same,  please  ?  I  hâve  no 
one  in  ail  the  world  to  ask  but  you,  and  you  are — going 
—away,"  another  sudden  break,  "and — I  may  never  see 
you  again."  ; 

He  reaches  up,  an(%  takes  her  hand,  and  holds  it  in 
his  large,  warm  clasp.  He  looks  surprised.  Who  would 
hâve  dreamed  of  so  much  thought  and  feeling  under  that 
child-like,gay^girl» nature?  He  looks  grieved,  puzzled, 
at  a  loss. 

"  Little  one,"  he  says,  slowly,  "  I  hardly  know  hôw  tô 
answer.  Some  of  your  questions  cannot  be  answered — 
now — some — what  is  it  you  want  to  know  most  ?" 

"  Tell  me  my  name.  Snowball  is  no  name.  Mère 
Maddelena  will  not  call  me  by  it  ;  she  says  it  is  no  name 
•axa  Christian  child.':-^  '        , 


"  It  is  no  saint's  name,  certainly,"  hè  says,  smiling. 
"  I  should  fancy  it  would  shock  the  good  mother.  She 
should  give  you  another.'* 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4303 


f 


'I    -/ 


■f'  -/• 


i88 


SNOWBALVS    HERO. 


nhjré'?.-'""'"''  '"'""^  '^  I  «"'«^  beforc  I  came 
leii  me  of  my  môther  "  » 

2he^-;d  no.  speak  to  me  or  «„y  ooe.   vôu  and'  she  :i^é 

"  It  was  not." 

"M.  Paul— what  was  she  like?" 
Evél^^^^    yo"-very  like   you   in  ail   but  expression 
Eyes,  ha.r,  features,  smile-almost  the  very  same '" 

ioteteToî  upr^i'  :^-i^vr  ^^^^^  ^- 

back  in  hi,  /  "^  """  P*'*  '»<=«•    M-  Paul  lies 

luctanfsoundtag  vôfce  ''^P"""*'  '°  '^  ""•«'  «- 


-*" 


^ef  namtî  is  Madam  Vaïentïne." 
5^^flr*Iadam  Valentine?.    What  am  I  to  her?"^ 


ft,-" 


'  I  came 

er  heard. 
în-haired 
»  by." 
M.  Paul, 

md,  and 

is  quite 

When 

s  on  her 

slowly  ; 

he  were 

1  would 

eat  deal 

words. 

to  take 


ession. 
> 

ids,  aa 

ul  lies 

agaia 

1er  re- 

little, 
many 
Some 
everjr 


SNOWBALVS<  HERO.  189 

"Mâdam  Valentine  is  an  elderly  lady,  and  very  rich 
— richer,  my  Snowball,  than  you  or  I  will  ever  be,  our 
whole  lives  long.  Her  son  married  your  riiother^her 
only  son,  She  is  very  proud  as  well  as  rich,  and  it  was 
a  low  inarriage.  Do  you  know  what  a  low  marriage  is, 
my  little  one  ?  She  cast  him  oflf — this  proud  lady.  He 
was  drjovvned,  it.  appears,  a  few  years  after,  in  a  storm^, 
about  the  time  you  were  b<^rn,  I  should  think.  That  is 
the  history,  in  brief,  of  Madam  Valentine." 

"Then  my  father  is  dead,  to^^rowned.  My  father 
drowned  in  a  storm — my  mother  killed  by  an  accident  ! 
Oh  !  M.  Paul.  And  my  grandmother  casts  me  off — a 
little  thing  like  that  !  She  is  a  cruel,  cruel  woman,  M. 
Paul!" 

No  reply. 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?"  resentfully,  "  this  proud,  hard 
Madam  Valentine  ?" 

"  Everywhere  ;  nowhere  in  particular.  She  is  nearly 
always  travelihg  about  She  is  of  a  restless  tempéra- 
ment, it  would  seem." 

"  Does  she  wander  about  alone  ?" 
"No,"  smiling  at  the  scornful  tone,  "^he  is  in  keep- 
ing.  Her  nephew — also  her  heir — on«  Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine, accompanies  heir.  It  was  from  him\  received  you," 
And  then,  stiH  smiling  at  the  angry,  mystified  face,  he 
tells  her,  easily  enough,  his  part.  How,  knowing  Vane 
Valentine,  and  seeing  him  at  a  loss  how  to  dispose  ci 
her,  he  had  volunteered  to  bring  her  hère,  knowing 
Madam  Macdonald'  would  rejoice  in  her  coming,  and 
Mr.  Valentine  had  at  once  closed  with  the  oflfer. 

•*  I   kncw  you  would  çrow  up  hiippy  and  healthful' 
hère,  Petite,  lovedbyall,  and  lovingall.    And  I  wasnot 
mistaken,  was  I  ?    You  are  happy,  in  spitc  of  this  ?" 

?"  ^le  echoes.    "Oh!  ycs.   M.  Paul.  I  nm 


Cl 


happy — happy  as  the  day  is  long.  Only  somctimes — but 
I  should  nei'tr  be  happy  with  pcoplc  likc  that — I  should 
Just  hatc  tliem.    I  do  now.    I  lovç  cvcr}-body  hcre       ** 


^' 


>î> 


1 


■■■M 


.'>.•' 


i      3\/    ^K         t  -î-        i.  .loi  J**i         1      J     * 


•*-     "Ns-^v', 


i  'AU.     ,k!L.tii  ImiJ 


^,> 


^imi-^-i^r/^-' 


X90 


V' 


'%- 


SWHrs^ZVS    BESO. 


-     "-n  3h-e'^,„?Re„e.3tf '2?  p   >  Pve  Johnny  hi, 

you  were  holding  i„  Z;  "l'^'^P'^?  5>'«".  i'  was  René 

'>ne  could  hein  that     I.T  „1      t  '"''*  •'"''nny  best-no 
-..d  co„.n„7,  and   o  fond  oTL?  '"""  ''  ^^"^  '^  »  ^^^l 
,        '■Byno^eanC3dniaugW^"'"r^— •'     ■ 
Snowball,  you  do  your  dutv  bl  I'  '^^  '"'  J"»"' 

clj&ce.Qf  snubbin»  him    f  r  h^         *'  *"''  "^^"  ""iss  a 

^  ,.felIo„s;nearlyseventee7,ï  r'"^'^'*  indeed,  for  bfg 
you  never^ii  Reneln/hl?  ''^™  ">«!■■  «wn  way_a„d 

,  cal  subject  hère,  and  Cvef  ?  Jf  ""^  ""^  '"°S«Ph'- 
•bout,  fqr  reasons  of  my  Iwi  y'  ""'  °"*  '  *»«  '°  «Ik 
you  o,      1,  hère,  and a^e  Moved  "^Lttor  ''^'"'^• 

^:ar;o:::rnr/"''^'°-#^"^^^^^^^^^ 

»e  Jhttcl  """^     ^'"*°'=  ^^"^  M-   Paul,  for  tellipg 

broIgttVrhe"?  Ren??;"*'-  "'"O  y^""  ««o.  I 
under  hU  arm,  .0  call  „rtô  suZer^'  7""  »  "«  b<;ok 
beforewego."  * '°  «"Pper,  I  fancy.    Answer 

eyes^^elX^^;:::  tr ':?e;tv' bf  ">  '^'■"^'^-  »«  "- 

like  that  other  fair  SœLrf  ?^'      u"''*'  ''"«''t  faÊe-so 
New  England  town  f  "'"'"'  ""  '"f*'  '"e  distant 

'oyy''^i-h:k^ru''^r;;it^^^^^^^^^^^ 


ff^ev. 


ohnny  his 
ugh  when 
was  René 

best — no 
is  so  stiff, 

for  you, 
r  miss  a 
— always 
<  for  big 
ay— and 
help  it. 
îgraphi- 
B  tô  talk 

happy, 

5an  you 

outnay 
e,  I  re- 

telling 

ago,  I 

book 

aswer, 

:  keen 
:e — so 
istant 

ylife 

:isses 
I  the 
I  the 


1 , 


u.J'  lijl^ 


iCfi'î 


■  J« 


1 


~\r^ 


■ç 


':^ 


F/ZZy*  .  ZJi^    ANGES. 


191 

■'^Sacr-r-re  Ueu r  h^  exclaims.  «Do  thèse  eyes  de- 
ceive  me?  Snowball,  trained  in  the  way  she  should  go 
(but  doesnt)  by  Mère  Maddelena,  making  love  to  M. 
Paul,  hère,  ail  unprotected  and  alone.  I  ^/^ corne  to  call 
you  to  supper,  but " 

"But  me  no  buts  !"  commands  M.  Paul,  laughingly. 
spnnging  to  his  legs  ;  "  and  cease  thèse  jealonè  and  cen' 

ZTJ^'^''v"'      o"'    "^^^^^^    ""y^^^^^S^  particularly 
good,  dc^you  know,  René  ?"  - 

tîJi^°^?'^^c  °''  ^^''"  roots /r;V^,^^,.R^he?"impa. 
tiently  puts  in  Snowball.  ^ 

^rZî^  ?^  '''^'  *?'^,  '"'"  ^^^''  bac|:s  upon  the  amber 
fhl  K  t  T  f  °^  '^y*  ^°^  ^^^^"*^  ^°  the  cottage,  and 
though  M.  Paul  talks  much  as  usual,  R«ie  wondefs  Uat 
has  corne  to  loquacious  Snowball,  so  silent,  so  thought- 
fui  so  sej^ous  is  she  For  somehdw,  now  that  the  long 
desired  explanation  is  over,  she  feels  dissatisfied  stiU-- 
things  are  not  much  clearer  than  before,  and  M.  Paul 
has  reasons  of  his  own  for  never  talking  of  this  any 
more.    He  haa  said  so.    It  i^  not  until'long  after  that 

est'n.-r'i!^''  '''"  ''''  knowledge  is  fraugh?  with  keen- 
est  pain,  of  thèse  secret  reasons  of  M.  Paul  Fan^r. 


■  » 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

VILLA    DES    ANGES. 

HE  summer  days  corne,  and  the  summer  da>b 
go  ;  twenty  more  are  counted  oflf,  and  it  ii% 
the  end  of  August,  the  close  of  the  long  vaca- 
tion-a  never^^be-foigotten  time,  since  M 


l* 


JZ^,' *il      ^   !  f *''''  *""*  *  ^''^^g^®  blank  is  left  in  the 
doctor  8  h<ïme,  and  in  thèse  three  youthf ul  heart». 


',  ;, 


-:A 


■■'i-ii 


*,,!^ 


-M^ 


-v^'-»'» 


-''-'/ 


■■'  ■a'''Sii  ■  "^ 


.T^f-'7««:1 


^ 


192 


VILLA    t)ES    ANGES. 


■  ne  says  to  René  at   parting  ;    "  remember  when  «h, 
..me  cornes  .0  call. «poo  „,e-if  I  2ive  I  wUl  „"  M 

lesœL'VenV'^K^  ""^  confidential  hoùrs  of  bis  conva. 
lescence,  René  the  réticent,  bas  opened  his  whole  heart 

It  "'""!?';"'""=  M-  P»»'.  and  told  him  of  ho~s^d 
dreams,  and  loagings,  and  ambitions  buried  de^^fn  hi» 
own  heart  up  to  this  hour.     He  is  a  mode^t  lad  ^nj  .hv 

Somefmes  I  despair,  buried  hère  in  this  out-of -îhe  ^orid 

../;.„"'  """  <'*°  °=™''  be.  I  am  sure  of  it  " 
»!,      ^^  i  T"  '"*'"  ^""'''  "edicine,"  M.  Farrar  resoonds 
thoughtfully;  "it  will  pleaseyourfather.a^dakTwi: 
edge  of  anatomy  is  absolutely  essential,  you  know    f 
your  aspirations  are  evércarried  out.    Aj°hey^ai^ 

Not  a.  air  i  âr  ""'•■?''"'''  '"<•■■  Fool-h  -d  impo^^ 
J^ot  at  ail  I  always  knew  you  had  a  sparlt  of  the  divine 
fire  of  gen.us  somewhere  behind  those  levEl  black  bmws 

présent ,  keep  your  own  counsel  ;  I  will  send  you  books 
and    n  every  poss  ble  way  in  which  I  can  furtherCr 

Tu  s«  î':?"?"  ^"^^  ^'^'  p'^"^"-  '<>  00  ''aK: 

you  sSl  rr„  rf  °PP°«->'"«-   When  the  time  cornes. 

jTù.b^lievelT"'"'^"'"^"''''^""'-    ""■"'-'&" 
Reue's  deep  eyes  glow,  he  is  not  expansive  by  nature 

nanas,  and  his  eloauent  fnr*»  c»«ioi,«  *,._  ..„      .,.       .    *** 


tan^WhireloqKtftcë^rfn^.*!;::^ 
hear.  overflows  with  gratitude.    Ah  !  *>  i^  f rieodl>î 


a 


1  W   "  '\'    i-*'* 


V  j,^.. 


fe.. 


r/ZZ^    ZJZ"^    ANGES. 


»93 


Indeed,  the  whole  household,  with  Weesy  and  Titn,  are 
m  despair  at  this  désertion.  Snowball  weeps  her  blue 
eyes  alJ  r  ed  and  swollen,  for  days  before,  and  will  not  be 
comforted. 

"If  I  see  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  before  I  leave  the  coun-' 
try,     he  says  to  her,  a  mischievous  gleam  in  liis  eyes,  i 
your  benefactor,  you  know,  what  shall  I  say  to  him  from- 
you  ?" 

"Say  I  hâte  him  !"  answers  Mistress   Snowball,  vic- 
lously.     ♦♦  I  always  hated  benefactors  !     I  owe  it  to  you 
not  to  him,  that  I  am  hère.     I  nevef  want  to  see  him.  or 
ûer,  as  long  as  I  live." 

The  dây  cornes,  and  Paul  Farrar  goes.  Old  tim  rows 
him  over  to  St.  Gildas,  to  take  train  from  thence  to  the 
worid  without  Dr.  Macdonald  and  René  accompany 
hipi,  in  this  first  stage  of  his  long  journey  ;  Johnny,  and 
Snowball,  and  Weesy  stand  on  the  island  beach,  and 
wave  good-by.  As  the  boat  touches  the  St.  Gildas  shore 
he  looks  back.  Johnny  and  Weesy  hâve  gone,  but  Snow- 
ball still  stands  where  they  left  her,  a  sKght,liftterinir 
figure,  her  bright  hair  blowing,  gazing  after  through 
tear-dimmed  eyes  still. 

But  life  goes  on,  though  dear  ones  départ.  Septem- 
ber  cornes,  cool  and  breezy  ;  her  couvent  school  re-opens 
and  Snowball's  freedom  is  ât  an  «nd.  No  more  long 
^ils  in  the  batteau,  no  more  dangerous  excursions  to  ' 
Chapeau  Dieu,  no  more  long  rainy  days  of  romance 
reading  up  in  her  attic  chamber.  The  dull  routine  of 
tessons  recommences,  grammar  and  history,  and  Noël 
et  Chapsel  and  fine  needle-work,  take  the  place  of  gypsy 
outdoor  life,  and  the  seventy-five  boarders  of  Villa  des 
Anges  are  her  daily  companions  instead  »f  the  boys.  Old 
Tim  rows  her  over  every  morning,  and  tock  every  affer- 
noon.     Life,  as  Johnny  pathetically  puis  Ljs  naion^t 


-^beeranaskîftlesV'evenhêThastothrowasidehis^ 
beloved  Captain  Marryatt,and  recommence  mathematics 
and  Latin,  and  René— but  René  dreams  his  own  droomè 
9 


n 


nr, 


:j 


.),' 


M 


1 


»  4B 


J«/  )f* 


r 


Ï94 


K/ZZ^    p£^    ANGES. 


in  thèse  days  with  a  steady  «ioi  and  purpose  in  view  ab- 
8orbs  him^lf  in  his  studies.  writes  long  letters  to'  M^ 
\   Vm\  and  is  mute  to  ail  the  world  beside. 

Villa  des  Anges  is  a  stçitely  establishment,  set  in  spa- 
Clous  grounds^on  a  breezy  height  overlooking  tovvn  and 
Day.     It  18  a  boarding-school,  and  lias  within  its  vestal 
,     walls  youthful  angels  from  nearly  every  quarter  of  the 
g  obe.     There  are  a  doren  or  more  day-pupils,  besides 
the/^«x/^«««xm-among  thèse  latter  Snowball  Trillon 
although  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  is  no  such  name  dôVi>- 
on  the  school-roll.     There  is  a  Dolores  Macdonald,  and 
-Dolores  of  al   names  to  M^ère  Maddelena,  and  her  good 
sisters,  Snowball  is.     This  is  how  : 

o  1,  T.^^?  '^^  ""^'^"^  ^"'  ^^"^^  '°  ^«^^  ^^ràrxyi  at  three  and 
a  half  the  doctor's  wife  took  her  training  and  éducation 
under  her  exclusive  charge.  For  five  years  her  two  boys 
were  hardly  more  to  her  than  this  little  stray  waif 
dropped  as  it  seemed,  from  the  skies.  Then  came  a  sad 
and  sudden  death.    The  good  old  doctor  was  almost  in 

t^T\  11^  ''^.^l  °^  '^^  ""^^  ^''^  ^"  ^^«^  black  dreç*'  ' 
intensified  his  grief  and  remembrance  so  painfully,  that 
Maam  Weesy  prevailed  upon  him  to  send  her  ovér  for 
a  year  or  two  to  Villa  des  Anges.    So,  at  nine  years  old, 
Snowball  went,   rebelHousIy  and   loudly  protesting,  a 
2'enstomtatre  to  the  convent,  fuU  of  direst  anguish  and 
wrath,  at  being  thus  forcibly  wrenched  from  the  society 
of  her  beloved  Johnny.     As  a  lamb  to  the  shearers,  she     - 
is  led  imo  the  parlor  by  grim  old  Weesy,  and  there,  in#^ 
TJ^    ^"^"''■«"^^linff,  awaits  the  coming  of  the  dread 
Lady  Abbess.     But  when  there  enter?  a  tall  and  stately 
lady,  whose  pale,  serene  face  the  snowy  coif  become^ 
with  sweet,  smiling  eyes,  and  sweeter  broken  Enelish  a 
great  calm  falls  on  the  little  damsel's  perturbed  spirk 
She  lays  her  flaxen  head  on  Mère  Maddelena's  black 

^Z^Vk1^x^^\^^^  *  ''^^  ^^  ^""^^  '■^^^^^'  *"^  «"bmits  to 


>Y/-   Iric^x..!  X  .V fa»  ^x   ,oo>.  ic^xcx^  anu  supmitS  to 

^^^  *>"  i>0lfr  tç^r-wçt  ^hëeMs,  and  tQ  Waskçd  hw 


."f^ii. 


^^.' 


■//  Il 


Jj,^  ■' ■?>%#- ^ 


'i^X^  iVi^»"^sr-^. 


,t  • 


A 


VILLA    DES    ANGES. 


Y 


■  ■(  ■'' 


'95 


"  Snowball  Triîlbn,  madame." 

Now  Mère  Maddelena,  having  baptismals  ot  eveiy 
sort  and  size  in  her  villa,  should  not  hâve  been  surprised 
at  the  odd  sound  of  any  cognomen,  but  she  decidedJy  /V,t. 
shocked  even,  at  this.     She^gives  a  little  cry  of  dismay^ 
essays  to  repeat  the  name,  and^amentabjy  fails. 

"  But  dat  is  not  a  n«m,"  she  says.  ."  Wftat  you  call  it 
in  French  —  £(H^e.neige ?  You  bearT  SœiWj,  Ignatrâ  ? 
Dat  is  no  neq|: ,  wts  you  christen  dat,  my  çhUe?"  \. 

Snowball  doès  not  know — does  not  remember  ever 
being  christened.  Has  been  called  Snowball,  bothing 
but  Snowball,  %n  her  life. 

Mère  Maddelena  listens  in  eVer-growing  dismay. 
Does  not  know  if  she  has  ever  been  christened  !  Has 
no  father  or  mother  !  this  must  be  seen  to  before  she  is 
admitted  as  pupil  into  Villa  des  Anges.  Mère  Maddelena 
does  not  want  children  of  doubtful  antécédents.  Dr. 
Macdonald  must  be  questioned  about  this. 

"  It  is  imposs  dat  chile  shall  keep  de  so  foolish  nem," 
•  she  says,  with  some  indignation,  to  the  attendant  Sister. 
"  I  am  sh^m  of  it."  ^. 

"  I  zink  it  is  ze  moze  fonny  nem  I  ^|"hear,"  repliés, 
stniling,  Sr.  Ignatia  ;  "  it  mek  Père  Louis  ye  so  great 
laugh  last  tïme  he  çome.   We  must  baptize  her  anozzer—  ' 
de  nem  of  some  saint." 

Snowball  is  admitted  on  sufferance  ;  Mère  Maddelena 
calls  her  "  dat  chile,"  and  utterly  ignores  the  bbnoxious 
"  Snowball."  The  girls  adopt  it  with  glee,  and  "Snow- 
ball "  and  "  %ule-de-neige  "  are  shouted  over  the  play- 
ground  amid  Aôisy  laughter  until  its  poor  little  owner  is 
as  much  "shem  of  it  "  as  the  good  mother  herself.  But 
the  novelty  wears  ofF— Snowball  sounds  no  longer  oddiy, 
and  the  little  girl  herself  becomes  a  prime  favorite  with 
the  pensionnaires. 


Ur.  Ufàcdônald  îs  sent  for. 


„  ,,^,,  and  cornes,  and  appears 

before  the  tribunal  of  Mère  Maddelena,  who  there  and 
then  demands  an  unvarnished  history  çf  her  new  boardet 


^+T/*  ^i"S'^'"»H 


X90 


U,. 


/ 


VILLA    DMS    ANGES. 


The  doctor  has  httle  to  tell,  he  hardly  realizes  hîmself, 
V*ow  meager  is  the  information  Paul  Farrar  has  given 
him  until  called  upon  to  retail  it  thus.     The  child  is  an 
orphaiT,  her  friends  are  wealthy  and  most  respectable,  but 
.      do  not  wish  to  hâve  charge  of  her  personally,    • 
.^       Snowball  Trillon-which  does  not  sound  like  a  real 
«me,  he  admits-is   the  only  one  he  knows  her  by. 
Valentme  ,s  the  name  of  her  friends,  he'believes.     As 
to  whether  she  has  ever  been  baptized  or  not-Dr.Mac- 
donald    shrugs    his    shoulders.      What    wiîl    the  good 
mother?    He  knows  nothing. 

The  good  mother,  with  càlm  bilt  inflexible  resolu- 
tion, vvills  that  he  finds  out.  Otherwise  Snowball  Tril- 
Ion  cannot  be  admitted  as  à  pensionnaire  into  exclusive 
Villa  des  Anges.  And  \  it  is  discovered  that  she  is  un- 
papuzed,  the  omission  must  bé  at  once  set  right— if  she 
is  to  remain  hère.  It  is  the  rule.  Meanwhile  she  can 
remain,  and  run  about  the  play-ground  with  th^rest 

Dr.  Macdonald  writes  to  M.   Paul  Farrar  at  t'a  val 
M.  PaurFarrar  writes  to  Mr.  Vane  Valentine,  spending 
the  wmter  in  Florida  with  his  aunt.     Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine  readsXthat  letter,  twirls  it  into  a  cigar-Iight,  ignites 
his  weed,  aiid  sets  his  heel  on  its  ashes  '  - 

He  scrawls  a  line  in  reply.  He  knows  nothing 
about  it,  and  cares  less.  They  may  call  her  what  thev 
please,  or  not  call  her  at  ail,  if  they  prefer  it.  - 

It  is  about  as  rougbly^insolent  as  scrawl  can  be  •  he 
hâtes  the  very  thought  of  the  trapèze  woman's  child  - 
He  does  not  lay  the  matter  before  Madam  Valentine,  as 
M.  Farrar  has  suggested-the  sooner  Madam  Valentine 
oblitérâtes  from  her  memory  the  circus  brat  the  better    '  ' 

5>he  seems  to  be  doing  so,  she  never  asks  any  ques- 
t,ons~he  i$<not  likel^j  to  revive  her  memory.  In  due 
course  this  reply  reaches  Fayal-M.  Farrar  forwards  it 
mjurnto^r, Macdonal4^^J[Lpaor Jittle  Sno wbalj^^^renr^ 


^rincess  incognito,  there  could  hardly  be  more  round- 
about  correspondence  concerning  her.    The  upshot  ii^ 


«  te"_  4.^^j£i! 


VILLA  \  DES    ANGJSS. 


i* 


197 


Mère  Maddelena  is  at  liberty  to  do  as  she  pleases,  and 
christen  her  w^at  shèjikes,  and  as  soon  as  she  sees/fit 
-      Mère  Maddelena,  full  of  vigor  and  zeal,  set^  work 
at  once.     Next  week  is  thefeast  of  Our  Lady  of  Dolors 
— could  anything  fall  out  more  opportunely  ?— the  chiïd 
shall  be  baptized  Marie  Dolores.     And  so  it  is     The 
convent  chapel,  sparkiing  with  wax-lights,  fragrant  with 
flowers,  IS  thrown  operi  ;   the  ceremony  has  been  ^h^ 
nounced,  and  quite  a  congrégation  of  the  ladies  bf  St. 
Crildas,  ail  the  pupils,  and  the  sisters  attend.     Xfie  pen- 
sionnaires, in  their  white  dresses,  the  nuns  in  their  black 
serge  and  great    coifs,  make  a  very  effective  picture. 
Père  Louis  is  there  to  admit  this  stray  lambkin  into  the 
fold.     There  is  organ   music,  and  chants,  and  lîTanieè. 
And^down  at  the  baptismal  font,  in  wliite  Swiss,  and  a 
Jong  tulle  veil,  and  snowy  wreath,  like  a  fairy  bride 
wona<?rfully  pretty,  and  exceedingly  full  of  her  own  im' 
pprtance,  stands  Snowball,  with  her  sponsors.    Her  boys 
are  there  in  a  corner;  she  glance\  at  them  complacently, 
and  nearly  has  her  gràvity  ftpset  by  an  aflfectionâte  and 
sympathetic  wink  from   Johniîy.     And  then  and  there 
she  becomes  Marie  Dolores  for  ail  time.  f 

^^  ^^'■^Jfe^*'®^^"*  had  striven  of  set  purposéi  she 
could  harc^jhave  selected  a  seemingly  more  inappro- 
pnate  namâ  '  Felicia^^etitia,  LuciUa-anytî^ing  mean- 
ing  happmess,  joy,  light,  would  hâve  seemed  in'jkeepkig  ; 
but  Dolores— j^rr^/«/_for  that  radiant-looking  litS^  - 
one  L    It  strikes  even  the  spéctators— even  Père  Louis. 

"  Your  new  name  does  not  seem  to  fit.  Mademoiselle 

Dolores,"  he  says,  pulling  her  by  one  of  her  long  curls. 

Let  us  hope  it  never  may.     It  seèms  a  pity  notre  mère 

cannot  reconcile  herself  to  the  other  one— it  suits  you. 

I  thmk.'\  ■         ' 

But  little  girls  can  tolerate  it,  and  décline  to  ehanire  " 


\.-* 


■€ 


^i  tIto»whHc^^eis  Dotore^  ffôm  thenfefort¥  to  the" 
sisters,  she  remains  Snowball  to  the  boarders. 

.And  the  months  slipby,  and  tlie  seasons  corne  and 


«<^ 


,. '.Wi. ■,.  .■•;.'  . 


-■•    T"     ,■!>/>&■■- 


>»98 


r/zz^  z>4'5'  Aifàes. 


¥■, 


past.     M.  Paulhas  con,^  and  gone,  and  school,  and  Ger-" 

dious  girl-.healthful,  and-handsome  aiid  hi^h  sn^r^A 

own  world  bere.  her  "  boys  "  <he  c/nter  of  her  orW.  i„d 

.hosts  rf  fnendswhom  she  dearJ,  loves.    Wild  wintrv 

storms  howJ  around  Isle  Perdrix,  and  the  biZav^  riS 

.n_    he.r  jnajesty  and  might,  and  thunder  ail  a^b^ut^em  • 

7^1M^        VJV  "'  ^"""^  '""  '-  days.andevTn 
the  httle  world  of  St.  Gildas  is  shut  eut     TaJ^Z 

that  teinter  would  last  forever  !"  •  ' 

Thixteen,   fourteen,  fifteen—the  birthdavs  treaH  «n 

^h  other's  heels,  it  seems  to  her  sometim^.  so  mpidly 

do^^^  sIip..ound,  and  the,  sur;Sse  t^ 

sixttef  TtJl'V'^'^r  S^Pt^'^bér,  and  she  is  quite 

sixteen-a  tall,  slim,  pale  girl,  with  only  a  faint  wil/    - 

rose  tant  in  either  cheelc,  bufa  tiht  that  is^^^dy  t"  flu  te^ 

into  carnation,  at  a  word,  a  look.  ^  ^"^ 

"Our    Snowball    wouldn'^t    be    half    bad-lookinc  " 

^hnny  .s  wont  to  remark,  altogether  seriously,  "  if  le      ' 

IthJ  '\r'''\^^  '^^  hop-pole  patterns.   ^re  is 

mhms  of  her  but  arms  aad  legs,  and  a  -  /'  --- 


jQt  oUight    4- 


t-A-j- 


■i^'i- 


'"/•^ 


jrjfifffe  Sa 


■-(*■ 


■-V 


on 


^ 


^  ' 


N 


LA     VIVANDIERE. 


199 


Johnny's  tastç  leans  to  the  cLirk,  the  plump,  th'e^osy, 
.-as  exemplifiéd  in  Mlle.  Innocente  Ùcséreaùx.         '    <p 
"Il  is4ier.  last  year  at  Villa  des  Anges.     îîext  <îom- 

mencement  she  will  graduate,  and  after  that^ 

Ah!  after  that  life  is  not  very  clear.  •  The  boys  arc 

'y-going  awày.     René,  indeéd,  has  already  gone  to  New 

'     York,  as  a^ejihiinary  step  in  the  study  of  sculpture, 

wliich,  it^pears,  is  to  be  hi's  vocation  in  life.     Hé^is 

^  over  tvventy  now,  and  has  made  his  iinal  décision.  '  It  is 

a  question  she  ponders  over  with  knitted  bauies  ïfnd 

anxiouâ  mind  very  of^en.  \     "- 

She  wtil  bé  quafitied  to  go  out  as  a  governess,  sne 

^supposes,  or  a  teacher  of  music  and  langiiages,  probatl^y^ 

in  Montréal.  ^  -,   ^     ,.    „       ,  i 

Except  fdf  this  perplexîty,  the  girl's  lîfe1«  al^solutely 

serene  and  îree  ^rom  care,  and  in  after  yyears — in  the 

aftér  years  so  fuli  vl  strange  bitterness  and  pain,  .she 

looks  back  lo  this  peacef ultime  with  an  aching  sensé  of 

wonder,  that  stfe  cpuld  ever  hâve  wished  it  over,  or 

jthought  it  duii. 

/  But  clianges  are  at  hand,  and  suddcnly,  when  change 
Is.  expected  least,  it* cornes,^  and  Isle , Perdrix  and  St. 
Gildas,  and  Villa  des  Anges  vanish  out  of  her  existence 
iike  thé  figurés  of  a'dream. 


è 


^-----^ 


^ 


I 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


V 

y  LA    VIVANDIERE. 

\VAY  from  wiW  ând  lonely  Bay  ChalettCi  wi 
its  gloomy  fogs,  its  fierce  Atlantic  gales,  it8 
|»eetling  storf  breakîng  forevcr  on  'its'  eraggy'J^^^ 

, shore,  its  blinding  drifts  of  snow,  its  itif*g^,  . 

à  ^,    bleak  wintérs,-  the  sun  is  settin^ln  rosy  splendor  oyeT*  7 


\^.^ 


ft?cè* 


*>,M. ^^^    ^^^,  Wi^  %i^ ■i^^ 


aoo 


Z^     VIVANDIERE.      ' 


another  sea,  a  fair,  serene,  southern  sca     A  !..„     \,-. 
house.  stands  with  it«  f»^.  »*       j         .  '""''  ^h''» 

Windows  like  JmI.s  „f  TL  t^l  '"  ""'  ™='=-»g'«.  i'» 

stone,  stuccoedand  whiLS  w^fh  »  h     '•  "  ?""  °' 
rrom  the  second  story.Tdtl'e^  1^  fe^  Ï^»";;: 
tropical  luxuriance,  the  grounds  are  abl^e^;,,  fl 
and  shruba,  with  the  oran..e  the  lemnn  ,h    k  '^"^ 

fig,  the  stately  date-palm     k  sùît  wTnW  '     ,  ^"^""^  ""^ 
grant,  floats  up  from  the  oc<^a    l'^h^  h"    I"^  """  ^"'- 

«^in,t.„,uLna„a.hT.:JoV^Î3t'estlTut' 

houie'is'::!  g^wi'^it  o™:r  ">-'«'><' ^^-t'of  the 

•tately,  with  white  hair,  puffed  e  iboS  ""T""  """ 
of  finest  point,  a  severe  silvert-f.!^^^'  ""''*'■  *  ««P 

.hathaveVktsi«;^eve„„it'^5oT.rr^''';'  '=^"'' 
a  trained  dress  of  dark  silk  »7h    T         .?  '''*  °'  y""""' 

fabulous  value,  at  the  t Iriat  tld?  ^fi'T^''  '"•="'  "' 
ofbrilliants.  Shesup^rt^IfTa'^'^''^'""- 
mounted  with  pold  h,;,^r,     .f  *"  ^^^y  =ane, 

■habit,  than  hro^h  any  "aTntelr*  "'!>'-<'-«.  fro^ 
haughtv  old  laHv   „?I  K      f"^"y-   A  handsome  and 

»ol.^set'5  "--"-' -"Tb^.  dtdr"  '"'" 

HabKktrcTo^,t:: j;lr  4^^^^^^^ 

tl-Wi^  Md  the  disdainful  curv.  If  >h"  1  .T""  '"'"«• 


Ume^MdthedTdainJcûrXh    '     ■''^'^"^'  "^'"■'- 
-si^ee  l«o  absolute  :lror  Ï^rul^/^tt 


y>ï 


jf      ,,  „  •I. 


M^"^ 


/ 


jéV  ' .  -'â'W-  <^ 


ZA     VIVANDIERE. 


20X 


that  lighted  roQjD,  playing.  chess  ;  ir  is  at  the  elder  of 
thèse  two  she  looks  with  that  half-veiled  glançe  of  dis- 
like.  The  lady  is  Madam  Valentine,  the  gentleman,  Vane 
Valentine,  her  heir. 

Sovereigns,  it  is  said,  hâve  but  little  love  for  their 
successors.     Perhaps  this  inborn  instinct  is  the  reason. 
The  servants  in  .the  house  wilktell  you  th©rm*dam  is 
afraid  of  him.    And  yet  she  does  not  look  likç  a  womàn 
easily  made  afraid,  easily  cowed,  easily  brôught  into 
subjection  to  a^will.     Her  own  is  very  strong,  and 
seemingly  reigns  paramount.   But  there  is  often  a  power 
behind  the  throne,  which  the  throne  fears  in  spite  of 
itself.    That  power  ex ists  hère.     Mr.  Vane  Valentine,  if 
not  a  man  of  powerful  mind,  is  yet  a  man  of  profound 
obstinacy,  whether  in  trifles  or  in  matters  of  moment  ; 
there  is  a  certain  doggedness  about  him  that  does  i>pt 
know  when  it  is  beaten,  and  goes  on,  unabashed,  ui^jint  ' 
has  won  the  game.    And  he  grovvs  impatient,  like  ail 
crown  princes,  to  comeinto  his  kingdom.    He  has  hopes 
and  plans  of  his  own,  that  dépend  for  their  fruitiôn  on 
this  fortune,  and  the  queen  régnant  is  so  long  a  dying  ! 
More,  she  looks  as  much  like  living  as  she  dld  a  score  of 
years  ago  !    He  s\^ears  undèr  his  breath,  sometimes  over 
it,  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  cîiamber,  but  madam's  vitality 
is  a  matter  in  which  no  amount  of  profanity,  however 
heartfelt  and  sincfere,  can  avail. 

She  livcs,  and  is  likely  to  live  ;  she  takes  excellent 
care  of  herself,  and  spends  her  money— //«  money  rather, 
lavishly— with  both  hands,  on  every  whim.  For,  close 
upon  sevetity,  she  still  has  whims.  And  she  knows  his 
feelings,  and  he  knows  she  knows,  and  resents  it  bitterly, 
indignantly,  sijently.  It  seems  to  her  basest  treachery 
that  he  should  wish  to  anticipate  by  one  moment  his  suc- 
cession.    But  then  she  knows  nothing-  of  thnsf»  hir 


xààsA. 


plans-^lTane  Valentine  is  a  secretive  man  by  nature, 
even  in  trifles— knows  nothing  of  the  patiently  waiting' 
•isier,  Dorothea,  who  is  to  keep  house  fof  him  at  Manoi 


n 


s* 


^tfa.>î;v'fâLL' 


m 

"Si 

V'^S^ 

,  'S 

'*' 

■ 

1* 

...,.,^^ 

»»»■ 


^p< 


*"?S  C     ''  iVW  - 


303 


X^     VIP'AIfDIEIlE. 


Valentme  when  he  is  Sir  Vane,  and  the  American  m.ï. 
hons  are  h.s-„o.hing  of  Miss  Camilla  Rooth.  a  Ta  r 
cou  m,  „ho  used  to  be  younger.  and  who  l,as  sp;nt  hé 
fhe  MoTted   r'"'  """,  "^T"'  ""'""S.  'ike  Mariana  i„ 
Daronet  and  milhonaire. 

Of  thèse  things  she  Knows  little-she  only  knows  she 
•s  grow.ng  ,o  hâte  him,  only  Icnows  that  he  is  m"  eriy 

st^e  t„hi,T  '"  '•^'•""V'"^  benefaotress,  but  an  ob- 

5  acte  to  his  hopes  and  wishes,  and  her  riches,  by  right 

aiready  h,s  own.    There  is  never  any  open  rupture,  there 

s  cold  c.v.hty  and  attention  on  one  side,  chil l'Ascom  and 

nd,fference  on  the  other,  but  she,draws  more  and  more 

What  if  she  should  disappoint  him  after  ail  t_it  t  ■,' 
her  power.  There  is  a  fierce  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  vin" 
d.ct.ve  thought-she  can  leave  her  wLlth  as  she  plea  "s 

What  .f  she  does  it!    It  would  be  justifiable  reprisai 

•  ^   K^^ir"  .'«'  "  e°  "-"  °f  'he  family-to  diXytê; 
hu  band's  dymg  wish  !    There  is  no  one  else— -    Ly  I 

îe.    1?^°°',     No'.neelse?    What  of  her  son's  daugh 
^Z    .  r  ^  '°'"  °"'y  "^hild  ?    What  of  her  ?    NeaTer 
in  blood,  her  very  own-George's  little  child  ! 
if  I,   ">«■■« 'hought,  put  thus,  softens  her  heart.    What 
.f  she  should  send  for  A.r>    She  breaks  off-the  idca 

shTr  h"*^'  '°,  r'""-''  °™™heln,s  her  at  firs.  But 
she  broods  and  broods  upon  it,  un.il  familiarity  w^ïs 
off  the  first  Sharp  répugnance  of  the  thought  U  iTTh^ 
«nn  edge  of  the  wedge-the  "  rift  within  the  lute."    Onc^ 

From  thinking  to  talking  is  a  natural  sequence-M^ 
linker  ,s  her  confidante  ;  adroitly  the  topic  is  broS 

to  converse.    AU  that  she  knows  rfrte^huï^n^ 


9 


W.t^iifÇl! 


LA     VIVANDIERE. 


T' 


ao5 


-rA . 


mother-of  that  last  sad  interview  with  George,  is  dis- 
cussed  over  and  over  again.  ^ 

resolute  old  heart.  George  lives  again,  she  hears  his 
Wh'  "oh  g:  '™^^!;^^^^-^  '-  hif  boyish,  gladsome 
the^hou^h/  ST^';,^'r^^  •  ^^^  «h^'-per  than  death  is 
w!^  ^^  •  1  ^'  ^^""^^"««^  «ow  !  But  his  child  still 
!h?  '  i  11'"  her  power  even  yet  to  make  compensation 
through  that  child.  Why  should  she  fear  Vane  Valent 
tine?  whycarefor  his  displeasure  ?  why  not  assert  her- 
self  as  of  old,  and  claim  ker  grandchild  as  her  right  ? 
She  muses  upon  it  until  she  is  full  of  the  thought  ;  sleep- 
H  or  wakmg,  it  is  with  her.  It  is  of  that  she  is  think- 
ing  so  mtently  now,  as  she  paces  up  and  down  It  is 
past  her  usual  hour  of  lingering  hère  ;  a  moon  islifting 
its  shoulder  over  the  tall  date  palms  ;  the  starlit  south^  i 

and  Zlù  "'  rT""''  ^^""  ^^  fl«^^«r'  -nd  fores^  ! 

and  sea,  lies  over  the  land.     Still  she  keeps  on,  up  and 

fnn?;  Xr^^  '^°''"  '  '''^^  '^*  '^^°k«'  *«d  dreims,  and 
longs     Why  not-why  not-why  not    hâve   George's 

hfi'r^K  °^  ^'^"^  ^^"''^^^  ^'"^"^  '^'^  ^^'  "ghtful  home 
-hère?  why  not  now,  at  once?    Thirteen  years  ago  she 

Zl    H   '^^^.^^'--^^^    i«   «'ixteen  now,   fair  ^yonl 

doubt  ;  her  mother  was  that,  and  her  father Ab  t  was 

thereever  his  like  in  ail  the  world  ?    So  much  brijht 

vears'.  T'^  '"  "'  ""'^^  '^^  ™^"=^^^^«  ^'^  ^-  thirteen 
years.    Tears-very  rare  tears-soften  the  hard  brii- 

heT.  ^  K- Ir^'^P' ^"^' ^^^^-    SeveWn  years  skce 
she  cast  him  oflf,  and  only  now  thinking  of  réparation! 

tiiis  life  to  do  justice  to  his  child  ! 

voir/'  M  ""%  P^'' /f"*"  "S"^»  ï^o»»-.  aunt  ?"  asks  a  bland 
nn^;  ^'/^"^  Valentine  never  leaves  her  too  long  at 
l^^^a^^^^mchaly  .^trespectioa5>     Il  i.  nul  guod^for 


^!^^^'^'^'-    ««h^«dismissed'hi7fr£nd,a^ 
ySS?n?"  W""  °°  '^"^  y^r^nà^    «Shall   I  assis* 


'\w*- 


•fi. 


ti. 


lA 


'cf.. 

■  V 


804 


r'î.  -  '  '■     -î^  .      ..     j  J- 

|.     Z^     VIVANDIERE.  • 

patient  ^:Lt'  '"  ""'  '"'  ^'^  déclines,  with  an  in.. 

Pa^on'Thf'^ayT  ""'  ^'"^"^^  ^"  ^'"^  ^^^^  ^^"^ 
"Payton  hasgone.     I  beat  him  three  games  in  suc 

years  is  long  and  droopmg,  and  inky  biack.     "It  gre^ 
monotonous  after  tliat."  ^i  fercw 

«  Jn/'^^^?/^"'  ^^^"^^  "°'  '^^''^"^^^  ^^'^  gentleman  much, 
except  m  the  matter  of  mustacfae.     Indeed,  they  havé 

sTzed  an  f  ^.'^^  "'  '"'  '^^^  "^^^^^  ^--^^^  -d  empha! 
sized  ail  traits  Personal  and  mental,  existing  then.    He 

ance  of  haïr,  witl^  black,  restJess  eyes,  and  thia,  obstin- 
ate  mouth  ;  st  11  elaWte  as  to  dres^  fastidiou  in  the 
mmutest  détails  about  himself,  from  the  glossy  whiten^ 

He  looks  iV  '''  ^^'r-P^^'^^S  and  pufity  o'f  bis  nS 
He  looks  hke  a  man  thoroughly  well  satisfied  with  him- 
self-a  man  who  could  never,  under  any  circumstances. 
imagine  or  own  himself  in  the  wrong.  ™«ances, 

"  He  walks  beside  her,  and  casts  a  complacent,  self- 
«.tisfîed,  proprietor-like  glance  over  the  sc^ene.     Theri 
is  the  sea^  bathed  in  a  glory  of  moonlight  ;  there  is  a 
mockmg.bird,  singing.  whistling,  twittering,  like  a  whole 
aviary  near;  there  is  a  whip-poor-will  piping  pi J^! 
tively^nthebracken;  there  are  the  roses,  an'^l'theYyrtle, 
and  the  orange  trees,  the  passion-flowers,  and  the  jessa- 
mine,  scentmg  the  night  air  ;  there  is  the  Southern  Cross, 
ablaze  over  their  heads  ;  there  are  warmth,  and  perYum^ 
^ntineT-^  everywhere.     It  dawns  upon  kr.  Vane  Val^ 
«ntineitisaJnenight.     He  says  so 

vlB^emW^T^T^  nioonlight,"  he  remarks,  still  com- 
h  c  H  1  i  ?  *he  scène  were  gotten  up  especially  for 
his  délectation.    "  And  thaf  mQckins-bird    liotea  Jthl 


r.*. 


ïcllow.    As  you  say,  aunt,  it  is  much  too  fine  to  go  in  " 
I  am  net  aw^e  of  having  saîd  so,"  shortly  ;  -on 


.tlKilu«l'i  ^î" 


'^,^«6*iiS^,f^4--^_,,,,^-^, 


•^  < 


,4^\;*vK, 


ZA     VIVANDIERE. 


«hfc^ 


the  contrary,  I  am  going  in  almost  immediately— Vane  !" 
abruptly.  * 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  \      ' 

"  VVhen  did  you  h«^r  from  your  friend— what  is  hi^ 
name  ? — Farrar.*''        '?«;"' 

"Paul  Farrar?"surprised.  " Oh,  not  for  âges.  Not 
since  that  time,  years  ago,  when  he  wrote  to  know ^" 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  pulls  hitiiself  up  short.  "If 
that  girl  might  be  christened,"  is  what  he  vvas  going  to 
say.  But  madam  knows  nothing  of  that,  and  it  is  one  of 
the  cases  where  ignorance  is  bliss. 

"Well?"she  says,  sharply  ;  "finish  your  sentence— 
since  when  ?" 

"  Not  for  years.  He  is  in  Russia— got  an  appoint- 
ment  of  some  kind  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  naturally— 
moving  about  as  we  always  are,"  in  a  slight  tone  of 
grievance,  for  Mr.  Valentine  does  not  like  a  nomadic  ex- 
istence—"it  is  not  likely  we  should  keep  up  a  veiy  brisk 
correspondence.     Besides,  I  hâte  letter-writing." 

"Indeed!"  sarcastically  ;  "since  when?  I  should 
never  imagine  it,  seeing  the  voluqiinous  epistles  that  go 
to  England  by  every  mail." 

"  I  Write  to  my  sister  Dorothca  and  my  cousin  Camilla, 
of  course,"  rathcr  stiffly. 

A  pause.  •  '  .  ,  ^ 

Whatiscoming?    Somethitig  out  of  the  common,  hé  • 
sees,  in  thçiurtive  glance  he  casts  at  her  absorbed  face. 
She  breaks  the  pause  abruptly. 

"  How  often  do  you  hear  from  that  girj  ?" 

"  That  girl  ?"  bewildered.  «  Do  you  mean  my  cousin 
Camilla "  "^ 

"  I  meari,"  striking  her  stick  sharply  on  the  ground, 
and  pausing  in  her  walk,  "I  mean  that  girl  you  sent  to 
Canada  with  the  man  Farrar,  thirteen  years  ago." 


X 


"  OTi  î"  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  catches  his  breath.  The 
bursting  of  a  bomb  at  his  feet  could  hardly  hav.e  i;tartle4 
liimmorc.    "That girl!    Snowball  Trill6n." 


ieuiiiJîji-'  l'-i", 


sv 


&■ 


'Ai\  i.t4i!  * 


''\'  ':-'    »  k  «• 


-     '/' 


9o€ 


■k 


^A     VIVANDIERE, 


T^-f     -'- 


washed  house-front  moonlight  on  the^  white- 

A  frigid  stare  fnllV>„   k-     ^""°"'  "?  ">  Canada  still." 

Macdonald.-  '  '"""'•  '"  "»^  '"■nHy;  of  one  Dr! 

expS  Sret^  bS^.fl-^.-r  '"''"  '"""'"'^  ""- 

cus.oma,y  cold  caution  "/™n°'"rr"''  '",'  "'' 
breath,  and  his  n.,ic«  ^   •  ,    "™*"ff-     «e  draws  a  long 

«  M    ^°"  ®^®'"  ^^^'^  ^rom  her  ?" 

».ajn!:rc/rdt,n^j:;r„irb;rM^^^^^  ^^; 

— was  drawn  twn  mnnfho  _  "y  "7  ^t- Macdonald 

in  the  docTôr's  LTrl     T'  """^  '''^  "^  ""en  reported 
know."  '*""?'  ^''^  *"<•  »•«"•    That  is  ail  I 

.hc^Tea^orf  iitrtf/T-  '--«'■''-"^."-o  - 

.     "She^js  sixteen  years^d."  coldlv  >  "^f  u  _  .     ^    , 

^ÏHdw  aothing-nor  of^r^^         ^  '     ^feerTôoKsT— 

"  It  is  my  wish  then,"  says  madam,  asserdng  hersell  . 


^'^*t||'^-'j«"^ 


:  LA     VIVANDIERE. 


./^^ 


ao7 


■"■s-w- 


siiddenly  and  heartily,  "tbat  you  should  know  some- 
thing.  It  is  my  own  intention- to  know  a  great  deal.  I 
hâve  been  culpa^ly  ignorant  too  long.  Write  to  this  Dr. 
Macdonaid,"  bringyig  down  the  ebony  cane  witli  an 
authoritative  bang-**ask  him  for  ail  information  re- 
garding  this  young/lady^  my  grandchild,"  loftily,  and 
lobking  him  full  in  the  fàc?  with  her  dark  piercing  eyes, 
l' her  health,  habits,  éducation,  and  so  on.  Tell  him  to 
inclose  a  photograph  of  her  i%  Ais  reply." 

"Yes,  madam.  Anything  else?  Shall  I  write  to- 
night  ?"    ^  .  y^'cs    ,        ' 

"  To-night  or  to-morrow,  as  yôu  pleasé.  Tell  him  to 
send  thé  photograph  without  faiK  I  am  cnrious  ta  see 
what  she  is  like.    Tell  him  to  answer  at  once— a/  onceT 

"You  shall  be  ôbeyed.  Now,  what  the  devil/'  say« 
Mr.  Vane  Valentine  to  himself;  "  does  tjiis  mean  ?" 

It  means  no  good  to  him—that  at  least  is  certain. 
For  a  very  long  time,  hour  after  hour,  that  night,  he  sits 
smoking  cigars  at  his  open  window,  and  gazing  blankly 
at  the  fair  soùthern  moon.  He  ihust  obey  ;  there  is  no 
help  for  that.  If  balked  in  the  slightest,  this  headstrong, 
foohsh,  ridiculous  old  kinswoman  of  his  is  capable  of 
.goingip^erson,  beforeanothermonth  is  over  her  ven- 
erableTiead,  straight  to  St.  Gildas,  and  seeing  for  her- 
self.  The  only  wonder  is,  being  curiouj  on  the  aubject 
at  ail,  that  she  has  not  done  so  already.  H 

There  is  still  one  hope.  The  girl  may  not'  in  any 
way— supposing  her  even  to  be  his  daughter— resemble 
the  late  George  Valentine.  Ljke  mother  likjs  son,  thinks 
Mr.  Valentine,  savagely  biting  the  top  oflf  a  fresh  cigar, 
a^  if  he  thought  it  were  madam 's  head— a  preeious  pair 
of  fools  both  !  In  point  of  fact,  he  is  certain,  although 
hé  has  never  seen  George  Valentine,  ^pr  even  a  picture 
^^  jjj"^  ^^^  gj^g^jogs  not  resemble  iilm.    But  if  this  old-^ 


"Wy— -ïaHing  into  her  dotage,  no  doubt—should  fancy  a 
resemblauce,  and  be  besotted  enough  to  send  for  her,  and 
tïy  to  put  her  m  Jus  place— Mr.  Valentine  e^cpresses  hif 


^     ri'        f/  i     J  *^  -j- 


/-  -4. 


,' 


4. 


^M~ 


■[^. 


-T. 


9o8 


■^-^     VIVANDIERE. 


■Ctf, 


feelings  just  hère  by  a  deen  op^K 

f  ercely  closed  teeth      wïen  i^r    '  ^'°""^  °"'  ^^'^««« 

look  to  it  !     He  is  not  to  h       L'""?  '^  '^^'-^«'  them 

«^ter  au  thèse  yea^^  T^Z^-^^'TJT  'l'  ^"^^' 
to  her  Gost  !  iuiocic  old  relative  shall  fiqd 

davvns,  i„  a  diabolical  fJh  „  **'  *="'«'>  ■^'^^  smile 

after  thi.,  fhen  "Ilhe  ™n  *    •  ^^  'f  "^  '"«  Pholograph 
»eals  the  épi,,,Ie-"rf  thT!l,  î;""f  "'  ="•  <•«  '"W^  a?d 

,^,y-™  P9S.,  .^  „„,  e«ectï;ctr<,:rr.r; 

equaltoMr.  Va„eVal?„;tvot„"="P^'i  ="-'  '"% 

and;H.rdia'';tîrr^  j^^^  r-'  ""-. 

epistle,  without  a  word  infn  il   II'  ^"^^  '^^  precious 
Stfonrball,  my  dear"  '  Photograph  if  you  like, 

c  Jk;:ndTa:hLy:;;:  r  r-'-jT'  '-  *«  «-"ed 

to  corne  ereept  i„,o  the^r,      u      ^"'^^^'^  badnes»    '  - 

«nd  when  it  is  «arnL,/ ",^"1''-    .^'"  'he  letter, 
«If  over  to  St.  Gildas    htl       Pj"""  '"'  ""^  """  my- 

By  r^u^^i,  <a%^^-g-^o..  ,od  PO.  l^ 


A 


^ 


k 


ÊÈ^^^^-é^êf^êé'^m'.'^m^  ^^^. 


/'ïf« 


^^     VIVANDIERE. 


'::^p0^ 


209 


■<<*»;' 


Miss  Trillon,  going  up  to  her  maiden  bower  under\  the 
eaves;  "but  I  am  harassed  by  doubts."  \ 

She  takes  from  a  drawer  a  couple  of  phcftograpk 
tmted.  and,  as  works  of  art,  worthy  of  commendation 
1  Ijcy  represent  a  young  person  in  the  striking,  net  to  say 
st-ortling,   dress  of    a    vivandière-^    short    petticoat  of 
bnll.ant  dye,  baggy  trousers,  a  blue  blouse,  a  red  ^n 
set  rakishiy  on  one  side  of  the  head,  a  little  wine  barrel 
slung  over  the  shoulder,  pistols  in  the  belt,  two  rittle 
hands  thrust  there  also,  a  smile  of  unutterable  s^ciness 
on  the  face.     And  the  young  person  is  Snowball  !    As  a 
picture  nothing  can  be  more  effective— as  a  portrait  of  a 
stately  old  lady's  granddaughter,  nothing  coi^ld  well  be 
more  reprehensible.     Last  winter  sorte  charades  were 
acted  at  the  house  of  Mlle.  Innocente  Desereaux  ;  Snow- 
bail  appeared  in  one  of  them  as  a  vivandière,  and  the 
brother  of   Mlle.  Innocente,   a  photograph  artist,  had 
Deen  charmed,  and  insisted  on  imraortalizing  her  in  the 
dress  next  day.    The  photographs  hâve  since  lain  hère, 
too  outre  to  be  shown  ;   and  it  is  one  of   thèse  unde^ 
which  she  pertly  writes,  "«  votre  service,  numieurr  2.nà 
dispatches  to  Mr.  Vane  Valentine.  V 

The  interval  between  sending  and  receiving  is  about 
eight  days,  iu»d  eight  more  aoxious  and  uncomfortable 
days    Mr.  Valentine  never  remembers  to  hâve  spent 
What  is.m.  madam's  mind  ?-what  does  she  mean  ?-why 
does  she  want  the  photograph  ?-what  change  of  dynasty 
does  this  forebode.?    Does  she-^tf«  she-mean  for  one 
moment  to  throw  him  ovcrboard  for  this  upstart  ?    Does 
she  dream  he  will  permit  it  ?    Is  he  a  puppet.  td  be 
taken  up  and  played  with  awhile,  and  then  thrown  aside 
as  the  whim  seizes  her?  "He  will  show  her  whether  he  is 
or  not    Let  her  e^  pose  her  hand,  and  then  he  will  balk 
JieriieMLgame.  .      ■ 


Meantmie  th«e  is  nothing  to  be  donc  but  waîL  and 
waiting  is,  hé  fii^the  hardest  3^k  in  the  world. 
She,  too,  is  wauing.    The  su^ct  is  never  resumed— 


I4l 


Ji 


ef'7j/-^^0- 


,T-s:"-.g*ii».Tï« 


(':'■ 


i<  ' 


t 


•  10 


^A     V7VANDIËRE, 


«l>«nceforih  ?  It  aU  ZLw"'*'  ""^ending  people  from 
«"'ormed  gin  of  steeeT  K  th"e  ^h",  ^"'l""'  ^''^''''' 
aay  chance  resemble  ever  so  n»i?  .r^'?P''  "«'"'<'  ^y 

.  It  comes-tLe  letter  wUh'  h^cfln"'''  ""'  "■""  '"'  ' 
something  hard  within  Canadian  postmark,  and 

ont""  '""<'  "•'"''-  -  "«  OP*-  it,  and  the  .arU  drop, 

enough  to  ta'keTûp  bu^heML'"'"  T"""""  «folutioa 
The  letter  is  from  n.  m    "?  "  '*'''  »»''  "'™—  ! 

been  well  and  carefully  édulvi:.    »  Tf  '"'PP^'  ^as 
.    "'•«««^'ochangeherhome  '       "  *"*'  ''°  '^*«" 

«pectf„I,y,  Anguf  MacŒ  ^  """^  '  "■"'  ''<'  «  «»  '- 
«inr^T^fi'l"^:i:;»,^-^'«'"8-om.  As.om.of 
Wotting  it  out.  P  "«^  °™''  ""«  f»'--  landscape,  and 

«ne'tv,;''ai;t"fsi:r»r''r  »*'•  ^-^«'- 

used  of  late,  cornes  Keroom'^     """  î*"""  *"*  ■«" 
hand.  "■*  ^°°'"'  an  open  letter  in  his 

^U  is  the  letter  from  Canada,  and  the  piotare,"  he 

'    "f  '"J'S  both  in  her  lap.   .  v 

Tr^^^  »«' go^he  stands  and  waits 


'?.' 


".honeoffrigid -;!""""■'• 


if 


'^  li^  -^Aktâiv  fU 


»      (/. 


■■'^■^■J:; 


■ji;.'^f^;\i^ 


'   ^-^  la)   VIVANDIERE. 


é 

311 


"  At  my  leisufe.     I  will^et\in  the  picture.    You  need 
not  takethe  trouble  to  wait  !"  ,  " 

It  is  a  cuft  dismissal  ;  a  flush\of  anger  risesiovei'  his 
sallow  face.  -  \  G 

He  hiis  hoped  to  see  hèr  face  When  first  she  glances 
at  the  audacious  photograph.     He  îs  destined  to  be  dis- 
appo.nted.      But  he  knows  the  look  of  ai^gry  surprise  l 
and  disappointment  that  will  foll/t^,  ail  the  same.    With-" 
out  a  vrovà  he  goes.  *  ^ 

^^^,  with  Angers  that  shake  with  eagerness,  she 
snatches  the  picture  out,  looks  at  it,  drops  it  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  anger,  amaze,  dismay.  , 

What  !  another  danomg  girl  !  A  juvenUe  cop>  o"f  the 
boJd,  blue-eyed  circus  woman,  who  had  confronted  her 
that  September  afternoon,  thirteen  years  ago. 

And  what  oùtrageous  costume  is  this?  ^hat  défiant 
^  srtîile  ?  what  pert  woj:ds  written  underneath  ?    ' 

Is  this,  indeed,  her  grandcÈild  ?  — hers?  Does  the 
proud  Valentine  blood  flow  in  the  heart  of  such  a  frivo- 
lous  créature  as  this  ? 

What  indolence Jto  send  \i:^h  is  a  direct  aflfront.    And  ' 
yet-wïiat  a  p^^ttyl'ace  !   What  a  brightly  pretty,  piquant 
lace.     Not  a  bold  one,  either— only  saucy,  girlish,  full  of 
fun  and  healthful  glee.  ^ 

SHe  looks  at  it  again,  relùctantly  at  first,  relentingly 
after  a  little— thën,  long  and  earnestly.  \ 

No,  there  is  no  loôlc  of  George— none  whatever;  it 
is  a  youthful  répétition  of  that  other  face  she  remembers 
8o  well— only  with  the  brazen  recklessqeps  left  out. 

She  must  be  very  pretty  ;  she  might,  with  proper  train- 
ing,  becomê  a  lovely  girl.  What  a  wealth  of  ripplinir 
ringlets  ;  what  charming  featuDes  ;  what  an  exquisite 
dimpled  mouth  !  Only  the  dress— and  yet—that  might 
"'Vonly AgM's^houghtlcss  joké^ 


The  fctter  is  ail  that  can  bé  désire^,  formai  if  you 
wiJl— a  trifle  cold,  but  perfectly  respeçtful.  What  if 
Vanc  Valentine  hâs  couclied  his  request  in  impertinent 


.1,*. 

f' 


f 
.  JfJ 


'.p 


1 


aia 


^   J^LYmc    visit!^ 


v    ? 


«•■e  hits  it  ;  she  guesscs  a,   L  '  ""<*  ='"^P«"  that 

"in  spil:  o/.f'pTcr.e'':.'"  ^"'"  •'^  ^a''^  vindiciv.  ^*'' 

I-find  it,a  trifle  eccent«r"l.fc 
-  ^ouj.     Taken  in  a  ;an^trnr'-  "'^°>-"»"« 
g.rl   a„d  very  like  her  m„thX    v    "f  "*•    ^  P™"y 

I  will  keep  iL"  ^°"P'^''«,mygoodVan«i 

«».  an°d,  wUh  â'^„    ^ÏL".!,*^^'  °'  ">*  "«»««  '»  ^ell 
•wginninK  of  the  end.  Pho'ograph  are  but  the 


»<      « 


Fj-' 


CHAPTER  XVIIJ. 
FLYING  VISII 


,  Balo  liy  and  to«r„  Isi.  p„!^' '"''««l-  «circles 


,^,.' 


t  picturo 
•ccts  that 
her  heir 


m 


Hii 


lictivofli  .  !f^    ' 


.»«  « 


^nd  the 

James 

pretty 

î  rock- 

Vane, 

s  Ivelï 
entine 
it  the 


MF 

nng 
the 

s  io 
tq^ 

?les 

lo'f 

ht»-- 


,^.# 


6rs   ' 
iie    ^ 


A    j^ZY/ATG.  VI  SI  T. 


ai| 


gnirtjr  K  Gildas  wharves;  the  quaint  Jiilly  town  ksclf 
rests  rt'l  aJush  in  the  bath  of  ruby  suhlight,  the  sound  of 
eveninj  hnlU^th^  Angélus  ringing  out  from  Villa  deâ 
Angej»-  Hoats  sweetly  ^ver  the  hûsh,  until  listening,  you- 
imagina,  yourself  for  the  moment  in  some  far-oflf,  old- 
woii.i  (  Uj'  ol  Fra^içe. 

Isle  Perdrix  rests,  lik»  the  rocky  emerald  \t  is,  in  its 
lapis  laîuTi  settîng,  its  beacon  aiready  lit,  and  sénding 
its  goldrn  stre^m  cif  light  far  over  the  peâceful  sea.  ' 

rt  is  at  this  witching  hour,  of  an  ApriJ  day,  that  a 
travclpç^tands  on  the  St.  Gildas  shore,  aod  waits  for  the 
lerry-bpal  to  corne  and  take  him  over  to  the  island. 

•'  You  sëe,  there  ain't  no  regular  ferry,  as  you  may 
say,  betwixt  this  and  Dree^  Island,"  the  landlady  ex- 
plains,  at  the  little  inn  where  he  stops  to  makë  known 
his  wishes  ;  "  and  there  ain't  no  regular  traffic.  TÈcre's 
only  the^^octor's  family  and  old  Tim,  tbat  lives  on  the 
place  for  good  like,and  they  rows  over  themselves  when 
they  corne  back  and  forrid,  which  is  every  day  for  that 
matter.  W0  blQ^VsL  a  horn  when  strangers  corne,  and 
then  old  Tim,  if  he  ain't  too  busy„  conîes  across  and 
takes  'em  ofif.     l'U  blo^  the  horn  for  you  now,  sin" 

"  I  can  call  spirits  Irom  the  vasty  déep,"  quotes  the 
gentleman,  with  a  touch  of  huiiior.  "*  But  Hdir  they 
come  wh^  we  call  them  ?  '  It's  à  toss  up  thca  whether 
old  Tim  comes-*<5r  not,  madam  ?" 

"Jest  so,  si c^  You  takes  your  chance.  But  the 
lighfs  lit  P^ee,  so  ^ain't  like  to  be  none  so  basy  thât 
he  can't  conqifS.^  Fol"  he^s  that  «^ar— old  Tim  is,  and  that 
fond  of  turning  a  penny,  that  he  never  misses  a  fare  if 
hecan  help  it."  ^        ?  "  ■'  - 

She  lifts  to  her  lips  a  sea-shell,  and  blows  a  blast  tha^ 
mîghf  wake  old  Charon  himself  and  bringhim  across  the 
Styx.  •  "^ 


"You  wait  hère  a  little,  «ir,**  slie  says.  "Old  Tim 
will  hear  that,  if  he>  a  mind  td  come.  If  you  don'^  &e« 
him  in  fiftèen  minutes  you  w'on't  see  him  at  ail." 


'■!f 


é 


.•<***{ 


/ 


:f-'3fe. 


.s 


'-Jt . 


W«4 


■  «:* 


J^zy/^ra 


^'-gt;^*' 


}-^-^^^^^^  "P"-Uîve  customs  ob. 

'^^"te  sails.     One    boaT  ii^        ^'^^^  °^^  blades  or 
^      P-ty,  so  .hite,  so  dar„t;"3^r'a"'''   '^  "°'--'    - 
on  the  stern  ;  he  cannot  read  k7  "^"'t  '"  ^"'  ^««ers 
"   is  ^,a««^^  by  two  vo.,>h!  ""^^  ^^^^-^  he  stands 

th.rd  steers,  ail  are  sin^in  "     Th       ^°""^  "^«»  '"O"^,  the 
Canad,an  Beat  Song  reSs  h^'^^H^h  "'"^"  °^  '^«    ' 
"Row.b«the«„^.    '"^  where  he  Stands  ; 

At  the  Sound  of  f h.  K  '''*'''" P"»" 

prl,  „ho  hand,     h,,  o,,^/,^™  '«If»»  »  long  look  at^he 
'o„gprac.ice  cân  hâve  grveri  ^  f '"  ^''^  """^  ">«  <""y 

«redundance  of  ve^^fghT  ve^",' °'  T^'"  ^'--.  »"d 
°"  he--  oar,  after.  that  look  ItT-    "'^  **'■■•    S^e  rests 

ro-  seem  to  u-ge  some^o  ntto  wiî?":""'  '"-»  -'ho 
""t  the  majoritir  carr»  ,t    ^      """^h  ""e  third  obWfc 
.  ««vêler  feels  he  isThfsubLrf'f-    ^-^'-ct^lyS 

lood-natu^diydisporj^toMUho  î'"'^"""'' "-^"Ï; 
T.m  H,s  conjecture  provésto  h  P"*"*  <"  «ï»*dio«, 
»h'te  boa.  is  headed  for  Se  S.  V'^f'"'  •'  '*^P«tty 
^a/plr  up  on  the  sands  IJX  ^'"'^  ^^ore,  is  run 
»elf  from  his  recumbent  do<,L  ''"^'■'™»' «'«ng  hl^! 
touches  his  cap,  and  speâks      "°"'  '""^'"^  "dolntTy 

^eg  pardon  sir     v    * 
the""  'k?"  ^«''her  Jy^:  "?' ">  K»/"  P«e  Island?»    ' 


*tîCp| 


w- 


^^^^^^^^^-i^^^h^^SSî'^  ^''«  "^"^: 


river." 


if[MilOiir"'f"''^ri**W  I    i*''~'ir  '' 


^"""^"""''^'rr'^r^ii^mé  m.  uw'iwn,-."-. 


'*'— wm  frfftijiytawijj.,. 


•*>^-T^^-4'^'  *.-/ 


'      j 


-rf    PLYING    VISIT, 


■if «  x-^m^^X^.  "  ' ." . .  -  •■  &.-i:.j^zm^  .1  \  1^,^?". .  ^  « 


"S 

you  like  to-steer,  Snowball    l'Ill^S       '       *""^-     " 

ough.  tdbe  tired  by  thU  tto"' "  *  ^°"  °"-    ^°« 

Snowball  !    The  traveler  eives  a  btp-.»  .„j      jj 

Johpnjr  cornes  on.    The  boat  elides  off  lîir^  « 
dreamy  ha^/  '"  ""'°''  "™P»  ">«■»  i»  it» 

ceate  De«reaux  go°i^?°      """  to-morrow.    I,  I„„o, 
torily    tJe  ÔZ""  °'  "•""*  '"  demands.  rather  p«„mp. 


'xh^^r^^^^^  th.  co„! 

-      A  feUow  feelmg  œak«,  u.  wond«,u»  kind,"  àuott. 


s 
Al 


■i%'' 


.d^g^^(Mlk,i.L^^ 


^^^attlr*.;*..yA'iao.-ar'  *-iè. 


-<    FLYING    VISIT. 


•i6 


M  le.  Snp^ball,  still  demurely.  "I  get  so  overpowercd 
with  intellect  and  'tall  talking,'  Rene,when  you  are  at 
nome,  that,  do  you  know,  Armand's  mild  imbecilitîes  are 
a  positiiip  relief.  Besides,  he  is  so  very,  very  good-look- 
iflg,  poor  fellow.  Did  you  ever  notice  his  dark,  pathetip 
cy es  t  . 

_  There  is  a  disgusted  growl  from  the  austere-lookinff 
M.  René— a  smothered  laugh  from  Johnny 

"  Exactly  like  the  eyes  of  a  pathetic  poodle,  when  he 
stands  on  his  hind  legs  and  begs  !"  this  latter  savi:  ,  «T 
hâve  noticed  his  dark  pathetic  eyes,  Snowb^^nd 
always  feel  like  taking  hii,,  gently  and  sweelly  i>  the 
collar  to  the  nearest  butcher's.  .They're  ever  sô  mù4,  in 
expression,  hke  old  Tim's  little  terrier's,  Brandy  " 

rt  is  an  impertinent  speéfch,  but,  her  bacic  beintr 
turned  to  René,  the  young  lady.-rewards  it  with  her 
sweetest  smile.  And  her  smile  is  very  sweet.  She  is. 
without  exception,  the  prettièst  girl,  the  stmnger  think^ 
ne  has  ever  seen.  ^ 

Whatever  other  opinion   may  be  held  of  Snowball 
1  nllon,  there  can  be  but  one  on  the  subject  of  her  beautv 

No  eyes  more  coldly  critical,  better  disposed  to  find  faull* 
could  easily  be  found;  but  fault  there  simply  seems  toi 
be  none.     He  sits  at  his  leisure  and  takes  the  picture  in 
She  appears  to  regard  him  no  more  than  the  thwart  on 
which  he  sits.  The  head  is  small,  and  set  with  the  much- 
adniired  "stag-like"  poise  on  the  fair,  firm  ri»oat-a     ' 
head  crowned  with  a  chevelure  .dorée,  such  as  he  haé  "never 
looked  on  before.     The  figuj'e  is  tall,  very  erect,  very 
sicnder,  as  becoincs  sixteen  years,  its  contour  evcn  now 
givmg  promise  of  getting  well  over  that  with  a  dozen 
more  years.   The  face  is  oval,  the  eyes  of  turquois  blue- 
blue  to  theii-  very  depths  ;  fearless,  flashing,  fun-lovinr 
wide-open  eyes.  A  complexion  of  flawless  fairness,  whifé 
J^î^anâa  rniindcd  dimpled^chio.    Aad-he^ttkytfair— 
iwth  an  inw^rd  shudder-it  is  also  like  a  living  likenesê 


Of  a  waxcn,  dead  face,  and  rigid  eyes  of  the  same  forint 


-•  .#..,-. 


Mmm 


trri 


^    FLYING    VISIT. 


ai7 


me-not  blue,  seen  once  and  never  to  be  fowtten:  thîr- 
»teen  yearà  ago  î  ^         '  ^ 

^  As  he  sits  and  stares  his  fiH,  he  is  quite  unconscious 
hat  some  one  el^e  is  staring  at  him,  and  staring  with  a 
fro^vn  that  deepens  with  every  instant.  It  is  the  youne 
man  who  steers,  whose  dark  brows  are  knitted  angrily 
under  the  visor  of  his  cap.  ««S^uj 

"  Gonfound  the  fellow  !"  he  is  thinking,  with  inward 
savagery  ;  «  one  would  think  she  was  sitdng  to  him  for 
her  portrait!  Hang  his  impudence  !  Snowball  !"  au- 
thoritatively  ;  «you  hâve  handled  thafôar  long  enough. 
Corne  and  take  my  place,  and  give  it  to  me  " 

Snowball  looks  at  him,  and  reads  in  his  face  that  he 

S:i:^Msh^r  strange^unless  he  bas  eyes  in  L 

There  are  some  tones  of  Rene's  voice  Snowball  never 
cares  to  disobey  ;  this  is  one.   Perhaps,  too,  she  suspects.^ 
She  gets  up  obediently,  smiling  saucily  in  his  darklinir 
face,  and  takes  the  stem  seat.  ^ 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  cornes  to  himself  at  once,  an^d  is 
conscious  that  he  has  given  the  dark  anddignifiedyounir 
Monsieur  René  cause  of  offense.  He  hastens  by  pleasant 
commonplaces  to  make  his  peace. 

«..'17^^^^''^^''^'''"^  *°'^^'  ^'-  Gildas  -  quaint,  old 
world,  and  that.  I s  that  a  Martello  tower  he  sees  over 
yonder,  on  thèse  heights?  Ah!  rare  birds,  thèse  round 
towers-bmlt,  no  doubt,  in  times  of  French  and  British 

I^^^r  K^f""^"? '  ^'"^  °^  ^'°*"'  î°  "^nix^y,  with  its 
Angélus  bell,  and  its  convents,  and  priests  in  the  streets, 
dressed  m  soutane,,  Yes  (to  Johnny),  he  has  been  abrôad 
h^  been  a  grçat  traveler  now  for  years.    Charming 

TJ^"^'J^^'    ^'  **^*'  ^^^«  Perdrix,  with  the  beacof 
J^K-snuung?    A  pretir«îand— very  pretty,  no  doubt.   "~ 
They  know  Isle  Perdrix  well  ?"      y 

xl  ^®^*  ®"o»g*ï»  since  we  live  tttere,"  Johnqy  answert, 
^th  a  shrug;  "too  Well,  we  tWnk  somctimes.    Life  or 


lO 


?,..^^^,' 


— 1-*-       j^^i\ 


.,'-.  *  - 


.1 


"t?- 


f- . 


iV 


ai8 


w4    FLYING     VISIT. 


an  island,  be  it  ncvgr  so  charrting,  is  apt  to  grow  a  stale 
aflfair  after  a  score  of  years.  We  are  Dr.  Macdonald's 
sons,  and  he  is  at  home,  if  you  want  to  see  him.  It's  not 
much  of  a  show  place,  pree  Island,  but  tourists  mostly 
do  it  If  you  don't  wish  particularly  to  return  to-niffhlL 
sir,  my  father  will  be  happy  to  oflFer  you  a  room  " 

^  Johnny  makes  this  hospitable  proposai,  in  much  sim- 
plicity,  quite  ignoring  his  brother's  warning  frown;    ' 

René  has  taken  a  sudden  dislike  and  distrust  of  this 
dark,  staring  stranger,  and  his  patronizing  talk.  He 
may  spend  his  own  shining  hours-and  he  does  spend  a 
good  many  of  them-in  pudicious  repression  of  Miss 
inllon,  but  he  is  singularly  intolérant  of  any  other 
maie  créature  presuming  to  také  the  smallest  liberty 

He  sus  absolutely  silent,  until  they  land,  and  then 
restrains  Snowhall,  by  a  look,  from  leaving  her  place. 

We  will  row  dowu  as  far  as  Cape  Pierre,"  he  savs. 
peremptorily.  "the  evening  is  much  too  fine  to  go  in 
lim,  to  that  aged  retainer,  appearing  on  the  shore,  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  do^ 
Brandy  at  his  heels,  «show  this  gentleman  up  to  the 
cottage,  will  you  V 

And  then/ Mr.  Vane  Valentine  finds  himself  on  the 
^ore  of  Isle  Perdrix,  old  Tim  inspecting  him,  with  two 
rheumy  red  eyes.  Brandy  smelling  in  an  alarming  man- 
ner  at  the  calves  of  his  legs,  and  the  Boule-de-neigt  float- 
mg  hke  a  fairy  bark  down  the  moonlit  stream.   .    . 

"Two  handsome  young  fellows,  my  friend,"  he  re- 
marks to  Tim,  following  that  faithful  henchman  ud  the 
rocky  paths.  ^ 

that.    Divii  their  aquil  ye'll  find  any where  in  thèse  parts. 
Av  yejvant  to  stan'  well  wid  the  owl  docther,  ye'll  spake 

a  civil  Word  for  the  byes.     I  say  ye'll " 

"And  ar  very  pp^ty  girl."  internipfs  ihe^.>:temgt 


.1 


carëless^y.::  «  Theïr  sister;  I  take  it  ?  although  she  doesnî 
reserable  them."  . 


.^S«%*.%!4*-"*-^' ^'• 


.   .  -Y^p  "■  ï''  '"'fl 


? 


V  T\         *  I 

^    FLYING    VISIT. 


ai9 

Timothy  groans. 

"The  geiTd  !    O  well,  thin,  'ti^thing  bad  l'il  be 

ZZ::^.^^"^"T'''1:  "P""  tna^r  and  conscience 
tis  nothm  good  anybody  can  s^  The  divilment  av 
that  gerre  -the  thricks  and  the  capers  av  her-mortial 
man  cudn  t  be  up  to.  No,  thin,  she  isn't  their  shister, 
not  a  dhrop  s  blood  to  thim,  i)ut  a  sort  o'  foniin  the  rmld 
docthers  bnngm'  up.  l'ni  sayin'-armh  shure  here's 
the  docther  for  ye  himsel." 

Dr.  Macdonald  appears,  and  Mr.  Valentineapproaches 
and  présents  himself.  '  pproacnes, 

The  présentation  is  not  so  facile  a  matter  as  he  usually 
finds  it  for  the  reason  that  he  has  made  up  his  mind  not 
to  give  his  name.     But  the  gentle,  génial  old  doctor  is 
siniphcity  itself-he  sees  a  stranger  at  his  g^te,  and  asks 
no  more.    To  give  him  of  his  best,  and  ask  no  questions, 
is  his  primitive  and  obsolète  idea  of  hospitality.     Mr 
Valentmeis  mvited  in,  is  refreshed,  and  pressed  to  spend 
ïï®  °5?U*°^  ^«^«Pts  graciouâly  the  invitatiçti.    Dr    • 
Macd<^nald  personally  oflfers  to  show  him  over  tie  island' 
seen  at  its  most  pictûresque  by'this  light,  relates  its 
history-a  tragic  history,  too,  of  bloodshed  once  upon  a. 
tune  of  plague  later,  of  terror  and  sudden  death.    Nine 
toUs  from  the  steeples  of  St.  Gildas  ;  the  little  island.  ail 
bathed  in  moonlight,  lies  as  in  a  sea  of  pearl-a  se^  so 
stiU  that  the  soft  lapping  of  the  incoming  tide  has  the 
Sound  of  a  muffled  roar.  s     .     u»»  me 

^  The  hour,  the  light,  the  silence,  has  a  strange,  eerie 
charm  even  for  this  man,  hard  and  sordid„and  but  little 
'susceptible  to  charm  of  the  kind. 

"1  cannot  think  what  keeps  my  children,"  the  doctoi 
says,  as  théy  tum  to  go  back  ;  "they  seldom  stay  on  th« 
water  so  late.    The  beauty  of  the  night,   I  suppose 


— tempts  theffl^  Ab  1  they  are  faeffe 


I' 


His  face  lights.    The  white  boat  gmtes  on  the  sand 
*°'"*^  Z"*^®  y^""ff  P«oP*e  corne  up  the  craggy  slopt 


ïi^^te  , 


•/ 


XI 


i*J 


■'fs 


'("JSS^i-^J-  - 


.  ïfciî*.. 


■ 


T  »■. 


r&n&^î 


"'lt'..jii'JiU»Ti|'"< 


3  <* 


220 


A    FLYJNG    VISIT. 


n^ll'?- ''^^^'  T^^  .'°  ^^^'  ^^Pd  lûver?  prithee,  why  so 
pale  ?      sings  the  girl,  and  slips  her  hand  through  Rene's 

^     Z^^     ■   ^T^  ^'™  ^  '^^^^-     "'Sure,  if  looking  glad 
wontwmher,willlookingsadavail?'    I  don't  know 

7in       ^'^^  ^°'  ^'  "^^^'  °^  °°*'  ^'  thafs  the  sensé. 
\1tTJ'        ^°"  ^"^^  ^^  Innocente  Desertaux  has  been 

'  "H"s^'  can't  you?"  retorts  Johnny,  divine  her  a 

XToloP]  "  '  '  '"  '^'^^  "  '°°''  ^^"  ^^^  ^    ^L  ^ar! 

n.fl!-^'"*"/*'""'^  ^'"' •"  """"^^^  ^«°e-     "Snowball,have 
nothmg  to  say  to  him  !     Gp  up  to  your  room  and  gc  to 

memJr/"  """''        "^  "'  ^^^"  to-morrow,  mornin|.  re- 

^nvh?'' ""^  ^^"^^  girls><?ught  to  be  in  bed  ai  nine  o'clock 
anyhow,     ohimes  in  Johnny,   severely,   "do,  Snowball. 

?^  '3%  1?^  "^'^^  ^"  '^^  '^^^^^^°'  ^i^«  a  «"le 

aear,  and  René  will  go  up  and  tuck  you  in  »" 

Snowball  recei  i^es  this  proposai  with  a  shout  of  deri- 
sivelaughter,  whichif  atriflelouderthan  Mère  Madde- 
lena  would  approve  of,  is  altogether  so  sweet.  so  joyous, 
that^the  two  men  waiting  sraile  involuntarily  Irom  sym- 

:%  little  girl  !"  the  old  doct(5r  sayà.  and  lays  a 
loying  hand  on  her  curis.  She  has  snatched  off  her 
saiior  hat  and  is  swinging  it  as  she  walks.  «  My  bovs 
and  my^httle  Snowball^sir,"  he  says  to  the  sUent  man 
^^^:T^'  besijl^him,  'but  you  hâve  met  before.  71 
rowed  this  gentleman  over,  didn't  you,  Snowball?" 

^IVtc  l  T°?l'  ^^"'  ^^^'^  ^ît*»  J<^h»"y-    René 

pkart  """""^   d^scri'niûating   in    their  unbounded  hos- 


,::^'t    ,^i^f 


iv' 


wim 


«^î' 


A    FLYING    VlSIT. 


'^y^'^'. 


aax 


'I  don  t  hke  that  fellow,"  he  think?,  "and,"  rather  ir^ 
relevantly  this,  "Snowball  will  be  asked  to  play  and 
sing  for  his  amusement,  no  doubt  I  Hospitality  is  a  vir- 
tue,  perhaps~but  even  a  virtue  may  be  carried  to  ex- 
cess. 

'  He  is  right-Snowball  is  asked  to  sing  and  play,  and 
does  both,  and  quite  brilliantly  too  for  a  schoolgirl  of 
sixteen,  but  then  they  are  musical  or  nothing  at  Villa 
des  Anges.  The  instinct  of  coquetry  is  thefe.  and  fiashes 
out-no, Jet  us  be  correct  ;  not  coquetry,  malicious  mis- 
chief,  and  not  for  the  captivation  of  the  stranger,  but  for 
the  aggravation  of  the  silent  and  watchful  René,  whb^ 
sits  in  a  corner,  with  a  ponderous  tome~Z/m  of  Art- 
tsts  and  ^Sculptors-héià  up  as  a  shield,  and  keeps 
watch  and  ward  jealously  behind  it. 

'  Did  you  ever  read  the  thrilling  romance  of  the  JDoz 
tn  the  Manger,  Snowbâll  ?"  whispers  Johnny,  in  a  pause 
of  one  of  their  concerted  pièces;  "just  cast  an  eye  at 
Kene,  and  behold  the  tableau  vivant  !" 

The  stranger  observes  as  well  as  the  speaker.  His 
keen,  half-closed,  black  eyes,  take  in  everything.  The- 
pretty,  hojnely,  lamp-lit  parlor,  whose  only  costly  pièce 
of  furniture  is  the  piano,  the  white,  benign  headof  the 
doctor,  tlia  staïwart,  handsome  Johnny,  like  a  model  for 
an  athlete^oj  a  Greek  gpd,  as  you  choose,  the  silent. 
grave,  intellectual  René,  and  the  brilliant  young  beauty 
with  the  golden  mane  falling  to  her  slim  waist,  the  white 
hands  fiying  over  the  keys,  and  the  blue  eyes  laughinir 
overatRene's»«gruinpy"facè. 

•.r?  *^f„»l"«»"l9«king  youth  in  the  corner  in  love 
with  her?  Vane  Valentine  wonders  ;  "if  so,  why«houl4 
she  not  marry  him  and  stay  hère  ail  her  life?  That 
would  be  a  way  out  of  the  diflSculty;  madam  would 
"^^^j" JEg"Me  hjrself  wife  ^  M.  René  Ma» 


f 


-#, 


donald.  And  he  is  handsome  too,  if  he  would  only  lîght 
up  a  bit,  ma  différent  way,  of  course,  from  his  brother. 
Wny  notî 


Sî< 


■M 


^=  -^utfjJ'j.iWb 


,. ,  f  «ï^***««*«B«««»«rt»»«^ 


.V 


;t 


•JW«,  fifl  i 


■]Tiypîi-iiiiW'^-'*^Ùiii'3^f^  '*>■':■ 


^    FLY^ITG    VISIT, 


There  seems  to  be  no  why  not    It  seems  the  most 

natural  thing  in  the  world,  sitting  in  his  room,  later  on. 

thmking  it  ail  over-that  the  girl  shôûld  marry  one  of 

thèse  Macdonald  lads,  and  become  socially  extinct  fof- 

everafter.     If  left  to  themçelves  it  will  inevitably  hap- 

pen  but  who  is  to  lell  whither  this  new  craze  may  not 

lead  Madam  Valentine?    She  still  retains  the  picture  of 

the  dashing  little  girl-soldier,  still  broods  in  secret  over 

her  new-found  dream.    The  woman  who  hésitâtes  is  lost 

—she  is  but  hesitating,  he  feels,  before  taking  the  final 

plunge  that  may  ruin  his  every  hope  for  life. 

He  is  hère  now  witljouf  her  knowledge.    He  has 
found  the  spring  beats  down  there  at  St.  Augustine  too 
much  for  him,  and  has  corne  North,  ostensibly  to  see 
that  everything  is  gotten  ready  for  her  reception-in 
reahtyto  paya  flying-visit  to  Isle  Perdrix,  and  behold 
forhimself  this  formidable  rival.    He  has  seen  her,  and 
finds   her  more  dangerous   than    his  worst   feara    If 
madam  once  looks  on  that  winning  face,  that  enchantinir 
smile,  that  youthful  grâce,  ail  is  over-her  old  heart  wiU 
be  taken  captive  at  once.    She  does  not  allure  him—he  is 
not  susceptible,  and  his  heart— aH  the  heart  he  has  ever 
had  to  g^ve—went  out  of  his  possession^  many  years  ago. 
He  nses  late,  descends,  and  finds  breakfast  and  the 
doctor  awaiting  him.    It  is  ten  o'clock.    He  apologizes. 
ploads  late  habits,  and  the  evil  custom  of  sitting  up  late 
The  doctor  wai ves  ail  excuses—his  time  is  his  guesfs. 

"I  must  be  going  before  noon,"  Mr.  Valentine  re- 
marks ;  «  there  is  a  train  leaves  St  Gildas  about  eleven,  I 
find.  I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks  for  your  kind  hos- 
pitahty,  my  dear  doctor.  My  visit  to  Isle  Perdrix  will 
long  remain  delightfully  in  my  mçmory." 

"  Very  pretty  talk,  but  where  the  diise,"  he  is  think- 
ing,  "aretherest?" 
Thexioctor  sces  the 


"are 


wondjBring  glaacc. 


y  young  p«>ple  started  on  an  ex  :uïMon.down  the 


ri 


i 


\    ,'|feiBifc^JiWiijK*>.ï^<!*i'"   ■„'>  ^vr*    r'   Ai&,    ^  ^,    'i.fo„'M    S3((^„^  ^  *i^«tç34|!Vîfe'..   a?^' 5.Vi 


.\;?'A;}w^-V-ir- :■»■'•«■■ 


?r1f- 


A    ^LYING    VISIT, 


bay  at  daylight,"  he  says,  "aïid  will  not  return  before 
night    They  left  their  adieux  with  me." 

Which  is  a  polite  fiction  on  the  doctor's  part,  no  one 
having  given  the  stranger  within  their  gâtes  so  much  as 
a  thought.  Well,  it  does  not  signify—he  bas  seen  hcr, 
and  found  her  a  foemàn  worthy  his  steel. 

He  départs.  Old  Tim  prosaically  rows  him  on  the 
return  trip,  and  he  takes  the  eleven  express,  and  steams 
out  of  gray  St.  Gildas,  with  the  memory  of  a  sparkling, 
laughing  blonde  face  to  bear  him  company,  "a  dancing 
shape,  an  image  gay,  to  haunt,  bewilder,  and  waylay  "  ail 
the  way  he  goes. 

Two  weeks  later.  Madam  Valentine  and  her  attend- 
ants are  located  with  their  pénates  in  that  luxurious 
domicile  that  is  called  for  the  time,  "  home."  But  the 
end  of  May  has  in  store  for  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  a  still 
greater  change.  Sir  Rupert  Valentine  dies.  It  has  taken 
him  many  years  to  do  it,  but  it  is  done  at  last. 

The  baronet  is  dead— live  the  baronet  !  Sir  Rupert 
is  gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  other  relations,  and  Sir 
Vane  steps  into  bis  shoes — his  title — his  impoverished 
estate,  his  gray,  ivy-grown,  ancestral  manor.  It  is  jsud- 
den  at  last — is  death  ever  anything  else? — and  Miss 
Dorothea  writes  him  to  come  without  delay.  The  family 
soliciter  also  writes,  his  présence  is  absolutely  needed — 
things  are  in  a  terrible  tangle— Sir  Vane  must  come  and 
see  if  the  muddle  can  bé  set  straight.    He  lays  those  let- 

ters — his  brown  complexion  quite  chalky  with  émotion 

before  his  aunt  and  arbiter. 

"  Certainly,  my  good  Vane,  certainly,"  that  great  lady 
s^S,  with  more  cheerful  alacrity  than  the  melancholy^ 
occasion  Seeips  to  demand;  "go  by  ail  means,  and  at 
once.    Any  money  that  may  be  needéd,  for  repairs,  &a, 
shall  be  forthcoming,  df  course.    Remember  me  to  your 


rïtster  âûd  MiïsXamîIîàTÇôdïh. 

Time  has  been  when  Vane  Valentine  would  hâve 
hailed  this  as  the  apex  of  ail  his  hopes.    That  time  is  no 


■■■f 


-ta 


,  i5-iV<-  '  '  ,\ 


,  fr- 


A 


gf 


.  <^,'' 


/■i  \^»  . 


«4 


'*ZA    HÉINM   BLANCHE^ 


À- 


may  visit  St.  Gildas     n„^»  Z  î  ,.*'*' """"«—«l'e 
is  lost  !     Wh« "u  an  °mp.'°  iîre'a"t 'M  f 'V"""  "" 

tune  he  risksf  *But"hê  risk T'.t"''"^''  »""'  ""=  '<"- 

better  part  of  valor^the  risT™  ^"V'^"""»"  «  the 
gloomy  brow,  and  a  forebod  ni  .  ^.   """•     ^'"'  » 

Atlantic,  Madam  Valentin?  «,    W  ^^  P'""*^  ■«"  «»e  " 
<iaringphotog„r^^roX"atX;V4?"'^«'^  °'  •"" 


V. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
"  LA  REINE  BLANCHE."    |  . 
LADV  for  you,  ma  mire."        \ 

»^s;n::ksttrâ;2J"  ^^' ""'^ "4 ^o""  Th. 


ri^.. 


A 


.«,,j!i}jy 


REINE    BLANCHE."* 


«95 


No,  my  mothér.    Peîl-haps^  it  is  some  one  who  cornes 
concerning  a  neW  iJupil.     Slié  is  in  ^he  second  parlon 
It  is  une  grande  dame,  ma  mire'* 
'       "  It  is  well,  ma  sœur.     I  will  go."  * 

Mère  Maddelena  lays  down  her  pen  with  some  rêlm> 
tance,  for  she  is  very  busy.  To-day  there  are  the  closîng^ 
exercises  of  the  school,  distribution  of  premiums,  ad- 
dresses,  graduation  speeches,  awarding  of  gold  medals, 
wreathj  &c.,  with  music,  and  a  dratoatia  performance. 
An^*'pié  Grandeur''  is  coming,  and  many  other  very 
great  personages,  lay  and  ecclesiastical,  among  them  a 
distmguished  Etxglish  "milor"  and  his  lady.  Ail  thèse 
dignitaries  Mère  Maddelena  has  to  receiyeand  enffcrtain  • 
her  girls  are  to  hâve  one  last  drilling  in  thêir  parts— a- 
thousand  things  are  before  her.  And  novr  she  is"called 
to  waste  her  golden  moments,  in  futilç  talk,  it  may  be.  in 
^    the  secofid  parlor.  \  . 

But  she  goes,  with  her  slow,  stately  ste^,'a  very  idéal 
lady  abbess,  serene  of  face,  gracious  of  manrier-a  ve^^ 
gracions  manner-quite  the  mien  ^f  a  princess.     And 
with  some  right,  tôO|  for  Mère  Maddelena  once  upon  a 
time  was  a  very  great  lady.     So  longlago,  sô  like  à^ 
dream  it  seems  to  her  now,  when  it  flits  for  a  moment" 
across  her  memory.    In  the  days  of  the  Second^mpire, 
when  the  glory  and  the  splendor  thereof  fiiled  the  earth, 
no  braver  soldier  maxched  to  the  Crimea,  among  the 
légions  of  Louis  Napoléon,  than  Colqnel,  the  Coint 
de  Rosière.    Among  ail  the  brilliant  ones  of  a  brilliant 
court,  few  outshone  Laure,  Countess  de  Rosière,  either 
m  beauty,  in  birth,  or  in  high-bred  grâce.    She  let  hihi 
go,  and  mourned  for  her  Fernand,  gayly—he  would  re-* 
turn  with  the  Cross  of  the  Legion,^a  Marshal  of  France. 
He  did  return~in  his  coffin,  and  his  fair  young  wife  took 
her  bruised  heart  out  of  the  world  and  into  the  cloister. 


-Atfirsrsheetriy-enteied  iwr(tf>-g/1fe;l^^ 

of  death  and  despair,  and  there  peace  found  her-*  new 

peace,  that  no  death  could  take  away.    That  was  ia  th« 


J 


i.«*,^V*»JS*i_,^  •  \iii . 


.  *«KlSa*ii:««ij«B(».!i»^i 


•^ïflMJ^f 


•»<       '         ^tÀ    SBIifE    SLANCHE." 
-Yh.    M  l»bit,  under  the  humility  of  tb6n/maJ 

•     stend,     T^^'  madame,"  Mère  Maddelena  says    and 
stands  until  her  guesthas  done  so.     ''A  irmndri.ml 
truly  !"  she  thinks,  as  their  éves  meet  «^/     k     Î  ^ 
and  striking  face  "  '        "*  *  haudsome 

«A  j  °°'  '*^'  "»'>  madame." 

.l>eariiigthatiiame,havByouno*?"  '     ■""■yyears, 

«.tint—''"'    ^'"  '"''  madame-Dd:  on^called  Val- 

"Tm^^  ""^  ^  "  '^'^"  »"h  «"n»  reludance, 

«ood  Dr.  MacdÏÏX-'^  ^"^  ^"'^  <"  ''»■• 

rf  ''sl?i°^n  u^''®°*^«"W»'?J'«ÏD«>lore»that/kn«r  = 

-it  ™!trt;;!5^'^"   B«tm«Jamefail„orecoU«ct 


r 


wi4itca  to  OH.  tlie 


\\  - 


subject 


;^|^^  .?ife^^1?ài^^*■.^î^4  ^^!i|^;S^A^^ 


,  1 


t 


■■•'>. 


.  '*''«;« f^"' 


'■^';^'9L' 


**Z4    BEI  NE    BLANCHE."^ 


H'*.^" 


^«■r^ 


r\ 


^ 


"Waa  I?  And  when?  Who  wrôtc?  I  remember 
iiothing  ôf  it,"*8ays  Madaûi  Valeptiûe,  rather  abruptly. 

"  It  is  many  years  ago  now,  fully  six  at  least  Ma- 
dam  Macdonald  died,  and  the  little  one  was  sent;  to  us. 
She  had  'no  name  but  the  so  foolish  one  of  Snowball, 
and  had  nevcr  beflffa  baptiied.  Madame  is  aware,"  de- 
Çrècatingiy,  "  wcrcould  not  tolerate  that.  Dr.  Macdonald 
wrote  td  his  very  good  friend  M.  Paul  Farrar,  then  at. 
Fayal,  ahd-M.  Paul— he  wrote  toyou  did  he.not?  ^r  a 
member  of  your  family,  ppri^ips,  for  thé  requisite  p«r- 
missionj" 

"Ahi-h!  to  a  member  of  my  family!  I  see/'  says 
madamé's  sarcastic  voice.  > 

"  Permission  came  we  mîght  do  as  we  pleased.  And 
we  called  the  child  Marié  Dolores.  Is  it  possible, 
madam,  that  this  is  the  first  you  hâve  heard  of  it  ?" 

"Quite  possible — the  very  first,  my  good  mother. 
•But  it  does  not  signify  at  ail.  I  prefer  Dolores  to  Snow- 
ball,  which,  in  point  of  fact,  is  no  name  at  alL  Well,  it 
is  your  Dolores  then,  that  I  Jiave  corne  to  see." 

"  Madame  is ?"  ** 

"  Her  grandmother  !  I  hâve  never  seen  her  in  my 
life!  You  will,  wonder  at  that,  my  raother,  but  her 
father,  my  only  son,  married  against  my  will,  and  to  my 
eat  and  bitter-  grief.  He  is  dead  since  maAy  years  " 
(mis  conversation  is  carried  on  in  French),  "  and  his 
lath  I  cease  not  to  déplore.  But  toward  his  child  I  did 
nbt  relent  ;  l^  banished  her  f rom  my  sight.  I  sent  her 
fere.  I  fatigue  you,  I  fear,  my  good  mother,  withall 
thèse  family  détails." 

She  speaks  with  a  certain  coldness,  a  certain  haughty 
abruptness  of  manner,  that  she  is  apt  unconsciously  to 
assume  when  forced  to  unveil  «ver  so  little  of  her  heait 
to  strangen?.  But  Mère  Maddelena's  gentle,  sympathetic 
__  :es~^e~task  easy;     — —  — — - — ^.—^==^- 

"Ah  !  but  no, madame.  I  am  interested.  I  am.sonqrv 
It's  ail  very  sad  for.  you." 


/  ■ 


'i'Ê(é^i%i'  '&&'.  Stli 


,^^^jyj^^^^^T^A^^\'^^. 


m 


328 


"Z^    REINE    BLANCHE» 


"I  grow  an  old  woman,  I  find."  Madara  Valentii« 
résumes,  still  in  that  abrupt  tone,  '^and  I  amTone^'she 
-this  girl-is  nearer  tp  me  than  anything  else  on  earth. 

_     "  Ah,  madame  il"  in  profoundest  sympathy,  "  and  once 
havmg  seen  her,  you  will  love  her  se?  de»ly     It  û^ 
h^rt  of  gold-it  is  a  child  of  infinité  talent,  Ld  good! 
«ess,  and  grâce.    A  little  wild  and  joyous,  I  grant^vou 
bw  what  „ill  you-it  is  youth.  Vnd  ;  pS^Ôn  of 

liUl^iT^,  ""°i""P*'''''8:.    AU  Villa  des  Anges 
will  \^d>soU  xt  madame,  la  h^m  maman,  takes  her  awlyi 

„  artarheTa;:yV"°  ^'""'^    Surely  madame  wiîi 

nTiJl'/  î*  "  '''^'  ^°"  describe  her,J  surely  will  !»  re- 
inânl         '"'"~"'  ^«='«»«>y-     "  You  paint  a  fascinat- 

aerfeet    Sixteenyears  old,.you  smt?"  \, 

"Nearer  seventeen,  I    believe,  and   tall  and  most 
womanly  for  her  âge.    Ah  !  ma  Our^f^i,,,  how  te  wH 

viu  m7       r  ^°"  •'  ■^'*'^'  ■  "^^^  '"^^"^  "'dame!  tla 
you  may  see  for  yourself  ?"  ■ 

sto^''heï"'"''''  °'"  ""  "^"^  '"  "■'  "*"'  ■""  *^  »"'" 
"No,"  she  says,  "wait     I  do  not  mistrust  your  judg- 

_  "  Most  easily.  Honor  us  with  your  présence  at  thie 
exercise,  this  aftemoon.  She  is  to  be  cr»wned  f«  «^! 
lencein  music,  and  to  receive  the  second  meiî  She 
^ter^ard  performs  in  a  little  vaudeville  we  hâve  dmm- 
,^±°-S«i-^-^^^E^^che _-  we. 


^i  h.  .Wtieirail  m  over,  tfie  pupils  mingle  with  tli« 


-'    \ 


■'"fu^dAni     L     iiiW 


',i 


■  *^-JV  t   ^¥ 


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"Z^    Âfi7iV:5    BLANCHES 


229 

^ests  in  the  parlors.  \  Y«u  can  there  see  and  hear,  and 
talk  to  her  as  much  as  Vou  lifce. 

«That  will  doadwiràLly."  madame says,  rising  ;  «and 
now  as  I  am  sure  you  ar).  very  busy,  révérend  mother,  I 
will  detain  you  no  longe  A" 

r«rl^*'  ""^iSr^l'.  you\with  one  df  our  admission 
cards  says  Mère  Maddd'ena,  rising  alsor  "so  many 
wish  to  assist  at  the  closing  exhibition,,  that  we  are 
forced  to  protect  ourselves  against  a  crowd.  Untifthis 
aîternoon,  then,  madame,  au  revoir" 

The  portress  glides  forward  with  her  key,  the  biff  côn- 
vent  door  opens  and  closes,  and  Madam  Valentine  is  out 

he^hofer  ""^^  *^''°"^''  ^^^  ''^^^''  ""^  ^'-  ^"^^^  '° 

Her  calm  mind  is  almost  in  a  tumult  of  hope,  of  fear. 

n  this  girl  only  proves  to  be  what  Mère  Maddelena  makes 

her  out,  ôr  even  half-what  solace,  what  companionship 

r„7r^  '°  'f°?  ^?''  ^^'  '  ^°"  ^^«°  i*^  her  reparation-1 
and  she  honestly  désires  to  màke  it-madam's  first  thought 
isof  self.  She  grows,  as  she  has  admitted  for  the  first 
time,  very  lonely  m  her  desolate  old  âge.  Vane  Valen- 
tine is  no  companion  She  half  fears,  wholly  distrusts  ' 
bim.  She  rebels  against  the  sort  of  power  he  is  begin- 
mng  tq  exercise  over  her.    His  impatience  is  too  mani. 

«  ilî  '^i^  °°'  ^T  ^^*'  ""^  ^°°*^  ^^°«'"  she  thinks,  with 
a  httle  bmer  smile,  «  even  to  oblige  you.  How  will  you 
Jook,  I  wonder,  when  you  hear  in  England  that  a  grâce- 
fui,  golden-haired  granddaughter  has  usurped  your  place  ? 
Georges  chUd ■- George's  little  daughter  !  To  think 
that  she  is  over  sixteen,  and  I  hâve  never  seen  her  yet  1» 
^ho.  Pf  °»  of  .self-reproach  passes  through  her-à  pang 
that  yet  holds  a  deeper  pity  for  herself.  ^ 

"How  blind  I  hâve  been  1    Ail 


■'4m 


\ 


,'*; 

'•*. 


m' 


thèse 


^^^Ç^^astedyearà,  she  might  hâve  been  with  me  : 
Imight  haye  won  her  love.  What  if  now  she  refuses  to 
corne,  or,  if  coming,  cornes  reluctantly  ?    What  if  she 


A${,'mH-; 


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£A    \R£IN£    BLANCJiE» 


prefers  her  friends  here—this  dqctor  and  his  family,  who 
bave  cared  for  her  always?  It  would  be  quite  natural. 
But  I  would  feel  it  II  would  feel  it  I  George's  child  !" 
Still  she  does  not  fear  it  greatly.  She  has  so  much 
to  oflfer— so  much  ;  they  hâve  nothing  but  love.  *And 
how  oftcn  does  love  not  kick  the  beam  when  gold  is  in 
the  other  scale?  No  one  ever  says  "no"  to  Katherine 
Valentme.  So  shé  dreams  on— of  a  future  in  which  she 
will  live  over  again  her  own  wasted  life,  in  the  bright 
young  life  pf  this  girl.  How  happy  she  will  make  her  I 
How  wh<)iiy  she  will  win  her  heart  ! 

"It,^ill  atone,"  she  says,  and  her  eyes  fiU  with  slow 
.  teaçsi  "  to  the  living  and  to  thfe  dead— oh  !  most  of  ail,  to 
the  dead!    What  I  refused  the  father  shall  be  given,  a 
thousand  times -over,  to  the  child." 

She  counts  the  iiours  with  impatience  until  the  hout 
sjïe  can  return  to  the  villa.  She  does  not  wish  to  go  too 
soonrand  be.forced  to  bear  her  impatience  under  the 
^es  of  a  hundred  peoplc.  Her  maid  stares  at  h#.  Is 
this  her  calm,  self-repressed,  proudly  silent  mistress— 
this  feverish,  flush/ed  woman,  walking  restlessly  up  and 
down  her  room  ? 

The  hour  strikes  at  last  ;  the  distance  is  but  short  •  a 
'  ^M^ *5r  *®  waiting.    She  descends,  and  is  driven  back'to 
Villa  des  Anges.     A  stream  of  people  and  carrlagcs  for' 
the  la^t  half  hour  has  been  setting  in  the  same  direction. 

AVwaiting  sister  receives  and  escbrts  her,  and  several 
othe;^  arrivais,  to  an  upper  seat  in  the  long  and  lofiy 
lialL  It  is  rather  like  going  to  the  theater— there  is  the 
stage,  the  green  drop-curtain,  and  silks  rustle,  and  fans 
wave,  and  plumes  nod,  and  an  odor  as  of  roses  and  vio- 
letsabounds.  Hère  is  the  ecclesiastical  élément,  a  bishop, 
and  numtrqus  priests  ;  hère  is  the  British  personage  and 
his  lady— Ml  imposing  assemblage  as  a  whole.  Sisters 
inblackv^standwhite  coifs,  flit  Bbout,  and  ail  along 
onc  ^dc,  tieir  upon  ticr  oHnnocence,  white  Swiss,  blue 
sashe^lMKl  carefuUy  arranged  tresses,  sit  thc"augels'* 


w 


/ 


**LA    ItMl^E    BLANCHES 


231 

of  Villa  des  Anges.  s4nt  and  demure  they  sit,  wreaths 
on  their  youthful  heads,  white  kids  on  their  angelic 
hands,  dancing  hght  in  their  bright  eyes.  It  is  an  effective 
pieture  altQgether,  and  so  thinks  madam,  taking  it  ail  in 
through  her  double  eyeglass.    The  granddaughter  of 

than  this  Canadian  convent,  after  ail.  Madam  has  been 
given  a  conspicuous  seat  among  the  nobility  and  gentry, 
and  m  an  excellent  position  to  see  everything.  ^iUs  of 
the  performance,  white  satin,  gold  lettering,  attar  of 
roses,  are  distribufed.  She  glances  eagerly  at  hers,  and 
sees  the  name  for  which  she  looks,  «  La  Reine  Blanche- 
A  Drama  m  Three  Acts  !  MarU  Stuart-^Ui.i.z.  Dolores 
Macdonald  !" 

There  is  a  list  of  other  names-mad^me  cares  to  read 
no  farther.  That  name  occurs  in  two  or  three  other 
places,  as  performer  of  a  «Moohlight  Sonata,"  as  so- 
pran,o.  m  ■»  quartet,  as  second  medalist.  She  hears  tho 
murmur  of  voices  about  her,  she  sees  a  sea  of  faces,  but 
she  takes  in  no  détail s--cares  for  none.  Yes,  once  slie  is 
shghtly  awakened.  Two  young  men  in  a  seat  near  her 
are  discussing  the  coming  entertainment  in  vivacious 

"  Gilt  lettering-ess.  bouquet-white  satin,"  says  one. 
sniffing  at  his  programme,  "when  Mère  Maddelena 
does  this  sort  of  thing  she  does  do  it.  Drilled  the  girls 
too,  in  their  parts,  and  you  will  see  they  will  do  her 
honor.  She  does'  not  forget  ;  she  once  took  part  ia 
pnvate  theatricals  at  the  court  of  Napoléon  ThirS»' 

'*>!  see  Snowball  down  for  the* White  Queen/  says 
he  second  voice  ;  «she  will  look  the  part  very  fairly,  it  ' 
l^st  if  shé  cannot  act  it.    She  is  not  unlike  the  pictbres 
of  the  Queen  of  Scots-the  same  oval  type  of  face,  the 


will  not  maJ^  half  ^m^miU^Si^T^^^^ 
the  part  in  New  York  not  long  ago."  .     " 

|v^^^^^*****  ^*'°''  ®*ï"**  Ristori  ccrtainly,  but 


'"«.s 

^ 


:$ 


^:'m' 


^i  " 


»jf*l^*BMnMII|B«ù^ 


y 


93a 


■> 


"LA    R^NE    BLANCHE?^ 


my  sister  In  no  says,  she  does  herself  and  Mère  Mad- 
delena  niuch  crédit  by  her  rendering.  Look  at  this 
vénérable  party  on  our  right,"  says  M.  Victor  Desereaux, 
the  photographer,  lowering  his  voice,  "  her  black  eyes  are 
going  through  lis— you  particularly— likegimlets." 
•  René  Maçdonald,  still  half  smiling,  glances  carelessly. 
Th6  «vénérable  party"  looks  botk  haughty  and  dis- 
pleased— he  sees  thàt.  Who  are  thèse  young  men  who 
are  discussing  her  granddaughter— /«r  granddaughter  ? 
Our  Snowball,  forsooth  !  Then  it  dawns  upon  her— oûe 
of  thèse  may  be,  must  be,  the  doctor's  son.  What  if-r-a 
quite  new  and  altogether  unoleasant  idea  strikes  her— 
what  if  Dolores— pshaw  !  the  child  is  but  sixteen,  and 
with  rio  thought,  doubtless,  beyond^her  piano.-playing 
and  school-books.  But  her  keen  eyes  linger  on  his  face. 
Is  this  young  man  handsome  ?  #ell,  hardly,  and  yet  it 
is  a  fine  face,  a  striking  face,  a  clear-cut  olive  face,  fuU 
of  promise  and  power.  \ 

"  Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ?"  quotes 
Victor  Desereaux.  "  It  is  a  clear  case,  René,  my  friend. 
The  elderly  party  has»  sflccumbed  to  your  charms,  she 
can't  take  her  vénérable  eyeglass  off  your  too  captivat- 
ing  face.  If  such  is  the  havoc  you  worjJ^kli\a  glance 
upon  sixty  years,  what— oh!  what  must  it  be  when  the 
victim  is  but  sixteen*?" 

The  orchestra  burstç  forth  at  the  moment,  and.drowifs 
his  persiflage^  and  the  performance  commences.  Ces 
demoiselles,  in  airy  white  Swiss,  flash  on  and  >Qff,  "speak 
pièces,"  sing  songs,  play  the  piano,  make  lovely  courte- 
sies  to  the  audience,  appear  and  disappear.  Madam 
Vàlentipe  sees  them,  and  sees  them,  not  ;  they  are  not 
the  rose,  but  they  grow  near  that  peerless  flower.  She  ' 
is  hot  with  impatience— her  nenres  are  pulling  hàrd. 
Why  does  not  this  foolery  end,  and  the  drama  begin  ?  It 
XAJ^asL^ie££de.  resis/àiueof  tïwéfkyftind  is  kept^ntii  lêssër 
matters  are  well  out  of  the  way.  But  its  tum  cornes  ^ 
la^  and  Marie  Stuart,  the  child-widow  of  the  Dauphin^ 


f.-.. 


4^« 


«lt*V 


^A    REINE    BLANCHE.'* 


«33 


in  the  snowy  robes  of  her  royal  widowhood,  "worn 
according  to  custom  by  the  queens  of  France,  hence 
called  reines  MancAes,''  st&nds  before  them. 

There  is  a  murmur— a  whisper— "5«<w«/^tf//"— a  sort 
of  vibration  ail  through  the  audience,  fairly  taken  by 
surprise  at  sudden  sight  of  ail  that  blonde  beauty  and 
grâce.  In  those  trailing  pçarly  robes  (white  silk),  her 
flaxen  ringlets  falling  to  her  waist,  with  blue  star-Uke 
eyes,  but  délicate  rosebud  face,  those  loo^ely  clasped 
hands,  she  is  a  vision.  Not  Marie  Stuart  herself,  in  the 
days  when  her  radiant  loveliness  was  a  world's  wondèr, 
could— it  seems  to  those  who  look— hâve  outshone  this! 

"  My  faith  !"  says  the  lowered  voice  of  M.  Desereaux! 

"That  little  sister  of  yours  is  a  dazzling  beauty,  my 

friend,  René!     How  is  it?    I  hâve  only  thought  her  a 

pretty  little  girl,  hitherto." 

Is  Renp  Macdonald  asking  hiipself  the  same  ques- 
tion ?  •  .       ' 

He  leàns  forward,  his  dark  eyes  kindling,  watching 
every  motion,  drinking  in  every  word. 

Is  this  Snowball— little  madcap  Snowbàll,  with  whom 
he  has  beeu  quarreling  ail  his  life;  whom  he  has  pelted 
blind  with  her  namesakes,  every  wjnter  ;  whom  he  has 
snubbed,  and  contradicted,  and  put  down  on  every  occa- 
sion ?  This  fairy  vision— this  radiant  Reine  Blanche, 
the  mocking,  exasperâting  mischief-maker,  whose  breath 
he  has  haU  shaken  out  of  her  body  erstwhile  for  her 
pranks,  whose  ears  he  has  tweaked,  whose  misdeeds  on 
the  high  seas  he  has  feprobated  !  He  feels  dazed.  Has 
he  bcen  blind— or  is  it  the  dress  she  wears— he  has  never 
seen  her  walking  in  silk  attire  before— is  it  his  three 
months'  absence  in  New. York— wAi/  is  it  ? 

He  has  never  seen  this  girl  before,  it  seems  to  him, 
jnhis  lifft--oeYcr> certaial^wUh^thc sanie  dazaled^^ 


i-      Will  she  be  his  commonplace,  everyday  Snowball  to* 
morrow,  and  will  this  glamour  hâve  gone? 


t 


%i 


fi 


:-*.èlf>','. 


*~     !'>■„  ' 


i^k^' 


g.«™5»î' 


r-A 


«34 


«Z^    REINE    BLANCHES 


srarsiirtds  on  the  shorc  of  Lochlcvcn,  and  WiUie  Douir. 
.las  kiieels  at  her  feet 
-     .-i    ,The  whit»  r^bes  are  gpne— the  floating  curls  are  hid 


A- 


^■ 


He  almost  hopes  soj  he  does  not  know  himself--or 
her — in  this  mood.     ^-  «        , 

And  still  the  play  goes  oix^-other  4)eople  seem  to  he 
,  under  the  spell  of  the  siren,  too..  ' 

She  is  singing,  now,  with  «teara  in  her  voice,"  in  a 
veiFed,  vibrating  tone,  that  goes  to  the  heart  :      " 

"  Adieu  I  O  plaisant  pays  de  Fiance,     . 
\      ,        •  -       .    -     Orna  patrie!"  ' 

And  so  on. 

y  She  is  leaving  that  sunny  land  for  Weak  Scotland     '- 
How  low,  how  hushed  is  her  voice  !    She  seems  to 
leel  thewords  she  sings.     Ybu  may  hear  a  pin  drop  in       ^ 
that  long  and  crowded  hall.  .  ,  - 

And  no^^  the  curtain  is  down,  and  the  musie  is  play- 
ing,  and  the  first  act  js  over,  and  René  Macdonald,  like 
one  who  wakes  from  a  dueam,  leaûs  baqk  and  passes  his 
Hand  across  hîs  eyes,  as  if  to  dispèl  a  mist. 

"  My  Word  of  honor,  Macdonald,"  says  young  Des- 
ereaux,  «^she  is  a  marvel.  She  never  looked  like  that 
Defôre.'^  How  do  you  suppose  she  does  it  ?" 

The  whole  audience  is  in  that  flutter  and  stir  that  în- 
yariably  foUow  the  droppii^g  of  a  stage  curtain. 

Ail  are  discussing  «  La  Reine  Blanche,"  her  beauty 
her  surprising  acting  of  the.part,  her  vague  resemblanoe 
to  the  lovely  Scottish  queen. 

Reàe  Macdonald  sits  nearly  silent,  lost,  in  a  sort  of 
dream--waiting  with  a  tingling  of  the  puises,  a  thrilling 
Of  the  blood,  a  quickening  of  his  calm  heart-beats.  alto- 
gether  new  and  inexplicable. 

Why  should  he,care— like  this— to  see  Snowball  ? 
«c  never  has  cared  before  ?  « 

Theorchest^iareplaying  somethîng  veiy  brilliant— 
in  the  midst  of  it  the  curtain  rises  again.  Yes—there  is 
Mary  Stuart,  widow  once   nH>ré-exiled-r-imprison>.rt 


'■•■'■■"<■; 


**ZA'  REINE    ELANCME.»  ^35 

den  awayunderavelvèt«snood"--the  face  is  sad  and 
pale.     Willie  Douglas  kneels  tbere,  urging  hci  to  fly.   ^ 

M.  Victor  Desereaux,  with  one  eye  on  the  play,  keeps 
thc  other  T^çpll  on  other  things,  and  notices  especlally  the 
rapt  attention  of  the  dignified  elderly  Udy,  whose  hard 
stare  at  René  caught  his  attention  from  the  first.  He 
sees  lier  now,  ail  through  this  act,  sitting  erect,  a  flush  oa 
her  thin  cheeks,  an  eager  light  in  her  fine  eyes.  ,^' 

Ail  présent  are  interested,  but  none  to  the  same  ex- 
tent.  Who  is  she?  he  wonders.  Snowball  has  no  rela- 
tives that  any  one  knows  of.  Whosoever  she  may  be 
shè  is  vividly  absorbed  in  the  fair  little  heroine  of  thé 
drama. 

And  now  ft  is  the  th^rd  and  closing  act—the  very  last 

scène.  She  might  toe  caliyed  la  Reine  Noire  as  she  stiinds,- 

ail  in  blaok— black.velvet— (éen)— that  trails  far  behind, 

and  giveé  height  and  diè^nity  to  slim  sixtcen,  a  stiffly- 

starched  ruff,  a  dear  little  Marie  Stuart  cap  on  her  blonde 

head.    In  that  sweeping  robe,  that  ruflf,  that  cap,  Mlle. 

Tnllon  feels  »  very  important  little  personage  indeed, 

and  treads  the  boards  every  inch  a  queen.    She  stands— 

her  queenly  head  well  throwqgback,  her  royal  eyes  flash- 

ing,  her  royal  cheeks  flushing,  voice  ringing— confront- 

ing  and  denouncing  her  great  enemy,  Elizabeth  of  Eng- 

land.    One  of  the  good  sisterç,  with  more  love  for  the 

memory  of  Mary  Stuart  thaû  strict  fidelity  to"  historié 

facts,  has  written  this  drama»  and  hère,  face  to  face,  the 

rival  queens  stand  and  glare  at  each  other.    Elizabeth,  a 

tall,  stout  young  lady,  in  ruflf  and  farthingale,  and  con-' 

spicuously  flame-colored  hair,   çowers,   strong-minded 

though  she  be,  bef ore  the  outraged  majesty  of  that  glance, 

and  is  ^jtogether  crushed  and  annihilated  by  the  éloquent 

outburstof  régal  wrath  ^nd  reproach  with  which  the 

jr(^:alty^^^{;.S€ôtl&itd  fina^Iy  qaeueher  her.    But  mâftyT" 

What  avail  reproaches?    Marie  Stuart  !•  sentenced  and 

doomed  to  die.  \, 

The  last  Bcene:  l>im  light  j  moumful  mudc  ;  •olemn, 


^d 


ir 


I  •  .1 


\m 


«.        ,    \  ..V 


936        '        «Z^    RETIRE    BLANCHES 

expectant  hush,  and  Marie  Stuart,  stilLin  trailing  velvet— 
black,  wearing  a  long  veil,  carrying  a  crucifix,  followed 
by  her  maids  of  honor,  with  lace  mouchoirs  to  their  dry 
eyes,  is  led  forth  to  die.     It.  is  only  a  school  play,  but 
there  is  the  block,  sable,  and  suggestive,  there  is  thè 
headsman,  in  a  frightful  little  black  mask,  and— most 
dreadful  of  ail— there  is  a  horribly  bright  and  cutting- 
lookingr  méat  axe.     ItJs  only  a  school  play,  but  René 
Macdonald  is  pale  with  vague  émotions  as  he  sits  and 
looks.     If  it  were  real  ?    How  white  she  is,  in  that  black 
dress— how  tall  it  makes  her  look,  how  mournful  are  the 
blue,   steadfast  eyes,  that  never  leave  the  symbol  she 
carries.     The  low,  wailing  music  of  the  <jrchestra  gives 
him  a  desolate  sensé  of  loss  and  p%in.     He  wishes  the^ 
would  stop.    There  is  deepest  silence.    "  into  Thy  hands 
Icommend  my  spirit."  .;How  despairingly  the  solemn 
words  fall.    She  kneels,  her  eyes  are  bandaged,  "  with  a 
Corpus  Christi  cloth,  by  Mistress  Kennedy,"  saith  history. 
The  sweet  face  droops  forward,  the  golden  head  reîts 
on  the  block.    The  headsman  lifts  in  both  hands  tife 
M    -v  ghttering  axe  !    There  is  a  sound— a^dund  as  of  hard- 

drawn  breatUs  through  the' halls,  then— it  is  the  curtain- 
that  falls,  and  not  the  axe.     Music  and  light  flash  up  !  ' 

Marie  Stuart  has  had  her  head  comfortably  oflf,  and 
her  manifold  troubles  are  over  !        "^ 

*      " /•tfr^/w /"  says  M.  Desereaux,  and  laughs. 

René  f^lls  back  ;  he  has  been  leaning  forward  in  that 
almost  painful  tension— îie  is  thoroughly  glad  it  is  over. 

**  Why,  René,  old  fellow,"  his  friend  says,  "  how  pale 
you  109k:  If  little  Boule-de-neige  were  really  getting 
her  pretty  head  off,  you  could  hardly  put  on  a  more 
tragicface." 

"I  find  it  close  hère,"  René  says,  with  «ome  impa- 
tience.   "  f  wish  it  waà  over.    What  cornes  xasxXJtL 


".îài 


HeTooks  at>  his  satin  slip,  but  when  the  next  cornes 
he  hardly  heeds.  How  lovely  she  looked  !  Who  would 
hâve  thought  itwas^  in  her  to  throwhèrseU  into  a  pçwer- 


'ï%- 


X 


m^-''-'-'''  -■■*, 


**ZA    REINE    BLANCHE."^ 


237 


fui  part  like  that?  A  clever'little  head  in  spite  of  its 
wealth  of  sunny  curls  ;  odd  he  should  never  hâve  found 
it  out  befor«.  She.will  appear  again  presently  to  play 
— aftèrward  to  sing.  She  will  do  both  well  ;  he  knows 
her  musical  power  at  least. 

She  cornes — this  time  in  the  white  Swiss  and  wieath 
of  tlic  other  pensionnaires — a  school-girl — no  longer  a 
white  queerî.  She  receives  her  crown  and  medal  from 
Episcopal  hands,  and  has  a  f çw  gracions  v^rds  spoken 
to  her  by  that  very  great  viçe-regal  personage,  and  that, 
other  distinguished  visitor,  ";my  lady,"  by  his  side. 

Then  there  follows  the  gênerai  distributions  of  pri2?es,' 
arfd  the  bishop  and  the  personages  are  kept  busy  fpr 
awhile,  and  literally  hâve  their  hands  fuU.  This,  tooi 
ends,  and  meeting  and  mingling  in  the  parlors,  and  con- 
gratulations and  mild  refresHments  are  to  foUow. 
-  Eveiybody  rises  and  moves  away.  Sister  Ignatia, 
sei^nd  in  command,  cornes  to  Madam  Valentine.  Mère 
Maddelena  is  of  course  devoting  herself  to  her  patrons, 
and  the  personage  and  my  lady. 

"You  will  come  to  the  parlors,  madame?"  asks 
smiling  Sister  Ignatia.  "  I  fear  you  must  be  tired.  It 
Was  rather  iong.\' 

"  I  did  not  find  it  âo.  I  hâve  been  deeply  interested,'* 
replies  madame,  truthfully  ;  "  they  acquitt^d  themselves 
excellentlj<one  and  ail.  The  performance  leaves  noth- 
ing  to-bedesired." 

"And  Dolores?"  says  the  sister,  gently ;  "pardon, 
but  révérend  motljer  has  told  me  ail.  How  do  you  find 
your  granddaughter,  madame  ?" 

"  So  charming,  my  sister,"  says  madame,  smiling  her 
brightest  in  return,  "that  jny  mind  is  quite  made  up. 
When  I  leave  St.  Gildas  my  granddà.ughter  leaves  with 


-J 


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"  * '/    ^r»' f^'"-iSi'*r*""''»^  *   "i;  ï'tt^t'*'^  ' $j{LS  ■^•iïï 'i^^^'i^^''^^iHt^:i 


•38         '^ ADIEU t    è'  PLAISANT   PAYS 


CHAPTER    XX.  * 

"  ADIEU  I  O  PLAISANT  PAYS  DE  FRANCE  I" 

jHREE  long  parlors,  en  suite,  are  filled  with 
I  adminng,  congratulating,  pleased  napas  and 
mammas,  as  Sr.  Ignatia  with  MadaSi  Valen- 
tme  make  their  way  through.  Many  eves< 
follow  cunously  the  distinguished-looking  ^elderly  iSy 
so  elegantly  simple  of  dress,  so  proudly  sfvere  of  fa^^ 
a  face  that  seemscut  in  old  ivory-bearing  unm^stak^S^ 

tùe  twro  titled  people,  the  Wshop,  a  few  others  of  th*. 

rai^d,  whence,  at  her  ease,  she  may  sit  and  ;iew  the 

rooms     A  veiy  bright  picture  it  is,  veiy  animated-4n 

the  smilmg  papas  and  mammas,  and  the  «sisterranHie 

.  cousins,  and  the  aunts  ;"  the  pupils  chiefly  in  Swîss  and 

d:::st''Th:Emr^T"/^^^"^"^  ^^^^^^ 

FirstFm^  Empress  Joséphine,  in  the  costume  of  the 
First  Empire,  her  waist-belt  under  her  arms  balloon 
^eeves  and  puffed  hair,  is  sauntering  arm  in  ;rm  wuS 
that  sangvinary  young  miss,  who  bufnow,  in  aTaT  et 

J^rof  Arc  •'''  "'*"^*  "^^^'  choppjfroff  ;  ro;alT^i 
Joan  of  Arc  ,s  présent,  in  a  helmet  of  shinin«L  silver 
paper.  a  shield  of  the  same  invincible  armor,  a  t&sword 
by  her  side,  and  valor  oi^er  lofty  brow 
^rJ^-"^^  Antoinette  flits  by  pretty  and  piquant,  and 
lookmg  none  the  worsc  for  her  misàdventurinil  and 
sundry,  in  the  tempK.    À»  the  sugar-plums  of  K 

âtnZ  ^"^  ^«'«-Blanche  Castile,  queen  and  S 
^^^pysant  girl  .H,^^ 

^Tbut  not  least-ever  charming  Marie  Stuart,  in  ù^ 
f<^ther  black  velvet  cap,  ruflfs,  and  stomacher,  5l  dotted 
over  with  sham  pearis. ,  Blue  eyes  sparkie,  long  rin^^ 


'■^-%'' 


■V 


I?E    FRANCBt* 

flow,  red  lips  smile—a  dainty  fan  of  black  and  gold 
flutters  coquettishly— she  looks  to  the  full  as  alluring  as 
her  bewitching  prototype. 

Madam  V^lentine  sits,  unable  for  a  moment  to  take 
her  entranced  èyes  oflf  this  brilliant  little  queen  ol  thc 
revels.  -x***' 

"  Shall  I  bring  her  up  now,  madame  ?"  asks,  defer- 
entially,  Sister  Ignatia.  '" 

"  If  y  ou  please,  sister.  Stay  !  who  is  that  young  man  ?" 

"  That  is  M.  René  Macdonald,  the  elder  son  of  our 
good  ^loctor,  of  Isle  Perdrix,  and  the  hxQi}a&x—€omprenez 
V9US — of  mademoiselle." 

"  I  see.     Yes,  bring  her  up."    ^ 

The  \sTo\het— comprenez  vous—oi  mademoiselle  has 
just  stoppedher,  by  càtching  one  yellow  curl  and  pulling 
it  eut  to  a  preposterous  length. 

"  Will  it  please  your  decapitated  jnajesty  of  Scotland 
to  cast  an  eye  on  the  most  unworthy  of  your  subjects  ?" 
he  Inquires;  and  Snowball,  turning  quickly,  gives  a 
little  ecstatic  scream. 

"Hener  Both  hands  go  out  to  him  in  aiirapture  of 
welcome.    "  Dearest  boy  !    When  did  you  come  ?" 

-«  Dearest  boy  !    Ah  !  happy  René  !"  sighs  M.  Dese- 
reaux^lÊLod  takes  himself  off. 

"  To-day,  couple  of  hours  ago,"  answers  René,  in- 
wardly  much  gratified  by  hisf  réception,  outwardly  non- 
chalant, "just  in  time  to  se^you  beheaded  You  did  it 
very  welV  Snowball.  I  <^re  say  we  shall  almost  be 
proud  of  you  one  of  thes^d'ays.    So  Johnny's  gone  !" 

"  Yes,"  says  Snowball/ and  a  sigh,  big,  deep,  sincère^ 
heavea  up  from  the  \éry  depths  of  her  whaleboned 
stomacher,  " Johnny's /gone.^  And  oh!  how  I  hâve 
missed  him.  *The  hç^rt  may  bîteak,  yef  brokenly  live 
-pn^'^wasit^Byroawfap  said^hatf  ItiSTafg^fgHy^troep 
and  I  am,  a  liying/ exam];>le.  M^  heart  broke  when 
Johnny  sailed  for  Liverpodl,  and  even  thc  pièces  went 
vitb.him.    péfù-7^  boy!    (î  mean  Johnny  thit 


^.-^ff 

^  A 

«39 

-■^'. 

'# 


-^' 


»*<t' 


'^' 


..M 


■M- 


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r 


1%*  fîfP-F^j»;^"'  T  ^s,- 


«40  ''ADIEU!    O    PLAISANT    PAYS       ' 

time,  not  you.)  Life  is  a  waste  and  howling  wilderncss 
without  him.  And  to  think  he  will  not  be  back  for  two 
long  months  to  corne  I" 

Ajiother  sigh,  deeper,  if  possible,  than  the  first.  And 
a  very  real  one;  Snowball  is  as  deeply  desolated  as 
Snowball  well  can  be,  at  the  loss  of  her  Johnny.  John 
Macdonald  has  gone  for  a  sailor,  has  accomplished  tlie 
désire  of  his  heart  to  plow  the  raging  main.  He  is  going 
to  do  his  plowing,  however,  under  unusually  favorable 
circumstances— the  captain  is  his' cousin.-  No  duckling 
ever  took  to  water  from  it^  hatching  more  uatiiwlly  oi- 
loviogly  than  he.  T 

"And  it  II  but  the  beginning  of  the  end— think  of 
that,"  says  ùnsympathetic  René,  "  now  that  he  has  got  a 
,  taste  of  tar  and  bilge-wKter,  you  will  never  be  able  to 
keep  hitË^n  land  while  he  lives.'; 

"  As  if  I  needed  you  to  remind  me  of  that  !"  reproaçh- 

fully.     "  As  if  it  ever  was  out  of  my  thoughts.     First 

-  you  went— although  that  was  only  a  happy  release— the 

isrànd  was  like  paradise  for  awhile  after.  And  then  came 

C^î^in  Campbell  for  Johnny,  and  he " 

*^*Jumped  at  it,"  says  René,  as  Snowball  falters,  and 
actually  places  a  latee  poeket-handkerchief  gingerly  to  her 
eyes,  "only  too  thankful  to  get  away  from  the  ceaseless 
■hen-peckiàg  —  chickçn-pecking,  perhaps  I  should  say, 
that  he  has  been  sufifering  from  ail  his  life.  You  see  I 
judge  of  his  feelings  by  my  own.  Yoi  don't  ask  me  what 
sort  oi  time  I  hâve  been  having  in  New  York.  Snow- 
ball." 

"BecauseT  don't  care.    Becausel  know  selfish  peo-^ 
'   pie,  who  only  think  of  thémselves,  enjoy  life  wherever 
they  go.    Of  course,"  resentfully,  "you  hâve  been  hav- 
ing a  good  time,  while  I  hâve  been  breaking  my  heart!" 

^^Broken  hearts  become  some  peppiç,  I  think."  says 


iRCT^TSnpmfr*'lHa^5^rnTOrbe^^^âîy^^Kn; 
indced,  to  enable  you  to  act  Marie  Stuart  con  amàre,  as 
jw  <i|4.    I  ^nojLit  n^rljr  broke  milieu  to  look  at  you. 


; -^r' ■•."■■  ji-jiÇ^' 


:\.  ^^    PRANCEP  841 

Yc8,  Miss  Trilloii,  I  hâve  been  having  a  good  time.  I 
hke  New  York  ;  I  like  sculpture;  I  like  my  taste  of  Bo- 
hemia.     And  I  am  going  back  next  week." 

"Next  week!  Seven  whole  days— one  hundred  and 
sixty-eight  hours  !  Do  ypu  mean  to  tell  me  we  are  to  be 
afflicted  with  you^r  society  ail  jt^at  time  ?"  4 

Thèse  little  customary  amenities  hâve  been  going  on 
while  Sister  Ignatia  makes  her  way  through  the  moving 
throng.  She  smiles  and  beckons  to  Snowball,  at  this 
juncture  catching  her  eye. 

"  There  !    Sister  Ignatia  wants  me.     Come  on  " 
She  shôves  her  white  kid  hand  through  Rene's  ann. 
and  walks  him  captive  in  the  direction  of  the  sister. 

"  Sister  Ignatia  may  want  you  ;  she  may  not  wantme. 
There  is  Innocente  Desereaux,  too,  looking  lovely  as 
y ueen  Blanche.     I  iftven't  spoken  to  her." 

"Oh,  come  on  !  Never  mind  Innocente  Desereaux  ! 
She  will  wirvive,  I  dare  say,  if  you  never  speak  to  her  I 
am  sure  you  never  hâve  anything  so  agreeable  to  say. 
^>our  thmgs  always  keep  well  !     Inno  can  wait."  w 

Snowball  may  bicker  with  him,  but  she  hoîds  him 
fast,  a  not  unwilling  captive.  Perhaps  this  sort  of  rep- 
artee  is  the  spice  of  life  to  them,  the  sauce  piquant,  the 
^yen  that  lightens  the  whole.  At  this  moment  Snow- 
bail  is  proùdly  thinking  there  is  not  Rene's  equal  in  the 
room.  ^  ^ 

"  And  how  nicely  he  is  dressed  !"  thiriks  this  demoi- 
selle of  sixteen,  Irtiough  tortures  would  not  hâve  wrunir   . 
the  admission  from  her.    «  That  is  a  most  becoming  suit 
--New  York,  I  sappose.     And  that  assured  manncr— his     ' 
lofty  way  of  carrying  himself.    A  young  man  shoul«t 
a  ways  wal|  well.    New  York  again.    But  no-Rene 
always  hadàn  air  of  distinction,  the  air  noble  Mère  Mad- 


Jglena  sajoi  jshe^  Ukes. 


coaedte- 


(Aloudj  "  EHd  you  not  ?" 

*„  *u  ^if*'  *^^f"«-    ^o  yo"  ««e  that  lady  yondcr,  in  black, 
With  the  cashmere  shawl  and  lace  bonnet  ?" 


II 


s 


'> 


'•^ 


''P-i 


:k 


t-  . 


«4»        ,** ADIEU I    O    PLAISANT   PAYS      ' 

"My  old  lady,  by  Japiter  !"  ejacalated  Riene.  "  Lady 
Macbeth  returned  to  earth  !" 

"  Looking  ail  that  there  is  lofty  and  unapproachablo 
— yes,  I  see,"  replies  mademoiselle.     "Whé  is  she?" 

"  She  is  Madame  Valentine,"  answers  the  sister,  look- 
injBf  attentively  at  her  ;  "  and  she  wisbes  very  much  that 
I  should  présent  you/' 

Snowball  has  many  things  at  this  moment  to  think 
of — the  name  conveys  nothing  to  her  mind  ;  but  it  strikea 
René  with  a  certain  unpleasan|  consciousness — surely  it 
is  a  name  he  has  heard  soçtiewhere  before  ! 

"  Wants  to  know  me  !"  exclaims  Snowball,  with  op^< 
«yèd  surprise.    "Now  why,  l  wonder?" 

"  Corne  !"  says  Sister  Ignatia,  and  leads  the  way.  She 
still  clîngs  to  her  captive  knight,  who  now  makes  a  sec- 
ond effort  to  bredk  his  bond& 

"  Let  go,  SnôWball.  The  severe  old  lady  in  the  gor- 
geous  raime»Qt  Jtfoesn't  want  me.  I  will  take  you  home 
whenever  ^i^Éè^.want  to  go." 

"Do^»t  le  foolishj"  is,Miis  Trillon's  only  reply. 
"The  iM  lady  will  not  keep  me  a  moment  'Distance 
lends^Schantment  to  the  view.'  She  will  be  glad'to  dis- 
miss ibe  in  about  a  second  and  a  half:"      « 

They  stand  before  her  with  the  words.        • 
v"Dolores,"  says  Sister  Ignatia,  briefly,  "this  lady  is 
adam  Valentine." 

Snowball  drops  her  blue  eyes  under  the  fixe^gaze 
ôf  the  piercing  black  ones,  and  makes  a,  sliding  school 
bbeisance,  without  a  word.  The  sister  perforée  présents 
the  young  gentleman. 

"  M.  René  Macdonald,  madame." 

René,  standing  very  erect,  clicks  his  two  heels  toge- 
ther,  and  bends  his    body  forward  profoundly.     The 
whole  performance  is  se  French,  that  ^nowball  gives  ■ 
"ETm  a  mîschievous  smilç7  and  side  glance  Trdm  ûnder 
her  long  lasbes.     Madam  Valentine  stretcbes  out  her 


^ 


1 


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,^      '-i^è^AiVii^iï; 


«■y 


'C  ■^.-•y. 


''*''"■ 


.'."ifr- 


./-n^ 


'i?^    FRANCEP     \ 


«43 


hand,  to  the  girl's  surprise,  and  takes  one  of  hers  in  a 
close  clasp.       '» 

'♦  My  dear,"  she  says,  aiïd  in  the  resolute  voice  there 
is  a  tremor,  "you  do  not  know  who  I  am  ?" 

Snowball  is  not  embarrassed  ;  if  she  is,  at  least  shé 
does  not  show  it.    She-  lifts  her  eyés,  and  looks  at  the 
lady.     Sister  Ignatia,  at  the  moment,,  feels  a  thrill  ôf  paK 
donuble  pride— the  young  lady's  composure  is  admirable. 
"  No,  madame,"  she  says,  "  I  hâve  not  that  honor."    ' 
"  My  child— I  am  your  grandmother  !" 
There  is  an  exclamation-  from  René — it  ail  rushes 
upon  him.     He  has  heard  the  name  from  his  father. 
Snowball'6  family  are  called  Valentine.    For  her,  she 
turns  quitè  white.  ^ 

.      "  Madame  !"  she  says,  faintly,  artdrfitands— stunned. 

"You  are  surprised,  dear  child.  It  is  no  wonder. 
Yes,  I  am  your  grandmother.  I  hâve  come  hère  ex- 
pressly  to  see  you.    I  remain  to  take  you  away." 

She  lifts  her  eyes  to  René  standing  beside  her  ;  his 
o^v^  complexion  has  blanched  to  that  dead  white  dark 
faces  take  under  the  influence  of  strong  émotion. 

Involuntarily,  unconsciously  almost,  her  hand  seeks 
his.  But  on  the  mdment  he  turns,  and  with  a  low  bow 
to  the  lady,  goes  hastily  away.  Sister  Ignatia,  toc,  turiis 
and  leaves  them  alone.       ■  .    • 

Madam  Valentine  looks,  with  a  sudden  sensé  of  fear 
and  pain  at  the  face  beside  her,  from  which  her  word8 
hâve  in  one  instant  driven  color  and  life. 

"  Dear  little  one,"  she  says,  "you  say  nothing.  Hâve 
I  been  too  sudden,  or  is  it— that  you  do  not  want  to 
come?"  . 

Snowball  w&kbs  as  from  a  dream.    Sudden  I    Yes. 

Shefeelsas  if  for  a  moment  her  heart  had  stopped  beat- 

4Bg-wUfr4W  ahock  oTThc  surprise;    Sfië"dmws  à  loig 

breuth,  and  the  blue,  wistful  eyes  look  steadily  into  thft 

dark  ones  bent  upon  her.  ^' 

|Ah,  madame!"  it  is  ail  she  finds  tQ  sajr  for  oq9 


'  11. 
'A- 


:&/ 


^' 


'i^-f^*^.  "" 


t>,  t^ 


'i^âAsS 


flf 


r    u     !»*''"  'V;V"»''^^^>^!j^^fe^î*A^**f>     ^v     ,1-^' 'ï^^itl^"*v:**4rVjr,'*r' 


«44         ''ADIEU!    O    PLAISANT   PAYS 

tremulous  moment.  "  Yes — ît  has  been  sudden — sudden  ! 
Mon  Dieu!  my  grandn^other !  Oh,  madame,  are  you 
indeed  that?" 

It  is  a  very  cry  of  orphanage.  "  I  am  sixteen  and  a 
half  years  old,"  it  seems  to  say,  "and  in  ail  my  life  I 
hâve  known  no  one  of  my  blood.  Why  do  you  come  to 
trouble  më  now?" 

"  I  love  them  so  dearly,"  she  goes  on,  without  wait- 
ing  for  a  reply,  "  so  dearly,  so  dearly.  They  are  ail  I 
hâve  ever  known.  They  hâve  been  so  good  to  me — so 
good  !"  •  Her  voice  breaks'. 

"Whom  do  you  raean  by'they' — that  young  roan, 
for  example?"  asks  madame,  a  touch  of  her  old,  cold 
imperiousness  in  her  voice. 

"  My  brother  René  ?  Yes,  madame  " — the  fair  hea4 
lifts  suddenly — "he  as  well  as  the  rest.  I  mean  ail— ^ 
Papa  Macdonald,  Mère  Maddelena,  the  sisters,  the  girls, 


J 


Johnny- 


"  Who  is  Johnny,  my  uttlc  jone?"  with  a  smile. 
,  "My  other  brother — Rene's  brother.     I   love  them 
with  ail  my  heart.     I  hâve  been  with  them  ail  my  life." 

"  I  know  that.     It  sounds  like  a  reproach  to  hear  you 
say  so.     It  should  never  hâve  been  ;   for  you  are  mine, 
Dolores — you  understand  Pv-^my  very  own  ! — my  son's  \ 
^aughter  !     Ah  !    my  little  girl,  I  am  an  old  woman  ;  ^ 
there  is  np  onQ  in  ail  the  world  so  near  to  me  as  you.  ^ 
See  !  I  plead-^adly,  I  fear,  for  I  am  not  used  to  words 
of  pleading — I  plead  for  your  love.     Do  not  give  it  ail 
to  thèse  good  friends,  to  whom   I,  too,  am  grateful. 
Shall  I  ask  in  vain  ?    Look  at  me,  dearest  dhild  ;  give 
me  your  hands  ;  let  your  heart  speak  ;  say,  '  I  am  look- 
ing  al  my  father's  mother,  who  wishes  in  her  old  âge  to 
make  up  to  his  orphan  daughter  what  she  denied  to.him.*' 
-JM&-Teparation,  my^childr^-^  If  yog  comcr  it^nuat  be  wiUk- 
^  ingly»  dise  not  at  ail.    I  could  not  take  you  with  me  a 
reluctant  captive.    Speak,  my  child  ;  it  is  for  you  to  say 
how  it  shall  bc:" 


\ 


Z^^^^^^W: 


i- 


y'f^%F-''7M'\ 


^ 


r>E    FRANCE,^*  a^j 

They  are  in  a  crowded  room,  but  to  ail  intents  and 
purposes  they  are  alone.  Nb  one  observes  them-if 
they  do  what  ,s  there  to^see?    An  elderly  lady  in  an 

d  ess  of  the  Queen  of  Scots-both  faces  ea^est,  ono 
pleadmg,  one  drooping,  and  startled,  and  pale 
■  ■     'I  shall  not  hurry  you,"  the  elder  lady  goes  on.    ^I 
know  that  you  are  half-àtunned  by  the  suffise  and  sud- 
denness  of  this,  now.     You  shall  hâve  diys-weeks,  if 

^^^^  ^°"  î?"  "°°^"^'  your  frieadUhis  good 
L  doctor,  this  wise  Mkher  Maddelena.     I  will  not  tear  you 
from  your  dear  ones  ;  you  shall  always  love  them,  and 

si  f  T.'  ?"'  ^""r"  *""*'  ""^^  ^^*^«  "^^"^  a"  rour  heart 
See!  my  Dolores  I  am  a  veryrich  woman  ;  but  that  is 
pot  to  we.gh  with  you.  You  are  to  be  an  heiress,  and 
my  darhng.  AU  that  wealth  can  give  you  shall  be  yours 
-the  pleasures,  the  brightness,  the  fairest  things  of  life. 

already  and  there  awaits  your  acceptance  ail  that  my 
heart  has  to  give  How  strangely  it  sounds  to  me  to 
hear  myself  plead  !  I,  who,  I  think,  never  pleaded 
^lT\  \  y«"/n"st  corne,  my  dear  one,  when  I  go, 
and  wniingly     The  life  you  leave  is  good-you  shall  go 

s  ill  find  kmder.  You  shall  tmvel  the  whole  world  over 
if  you  choose;  yo^^^ll  see  ail  those  fair,  far-off  lands 
of  which  I  know  you  must  bave  dreamed.  Your  édu- 
cation shall  be  completed  by  the  best  masters.  I  am 
proud  of  my  granddaughter  to-day— 1  shall  be  far  > 
prouder  of  her  years  hence."  œ  lar   > 

"Oh,  madame r 

thi  Jî  "  ^".P?''  ""***  Snowball  can^say,  oyerwMmed  by   - 
^^^     pe^u^ion.JIer  eyes  are  fiUed  with  tear^ 

rr/  ^   .K  ^^  '^'-    ^^*^^  ^°"°^  R«°«'*  *»"  figure,  f« 
away  in  the  crowd,  and  8^  him  through  a  mist. 

1  wiU  not  detain  you  now;  you  want  to rctum to 


1 1^ 


m 


%Èri*^ 


^m- 


,;■'■ 


^^''^^^^^.^i?,m^§rià> 


'A      - 


f^         Ii4d         ''ADIEU! ^  à 


PLAISANT   PAYS 


your  friends,"  madame  says,  very  gently.  She  hardly 
knows  herself  in  this  mood  ;  her  heart  melts  as  she  gazes 
on  this  girl  beside  her,  the  last  of  her  line.  ,  "  Men,  lijce 
pears,  grow  mellow  before  they  drop  off,"  says  a  wise 
an^  witty  Bosion  poet  ;.t^ie  mellowing  prèces§  must  in- 
deed  hâve  set  strongly  in,  when  hard,  haugbty  Madam 
Valentine  can  use  such  tones  and  wofds  \s  thèse  !  But 
to  this  girl— George's  daughter — it  is  easy.       .^-  .      ;. 

"There  is  the  doctor,"  Snowball  exclaims.  A  tall, 
white  head  and  benign  face  appear  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  and  she  brighténs  at  once. 

"  Ah  !  the  doctor.  Well,  my  dear,  go  th'en,  and  send 
him  to  me.  I  haye  much  to  say  to  him,  and  it  may  as 
well  be  said  hère  as  elsewhere." 

Snowball  dart^  oflf  with  alacrity,  pauses,  looks  back. 
♦    "  Shall  I—"  hesitatingly,  "  shall  I  return,  madame  ?" 

*•  Surely,  child,  before  this  company  breaks  up." 

"  Shali  I—"  the  fair  head  droops  again.  "  Shall  I— 
hâve  to  go  with  you — to  your  hôtel  ?" 

"  There  must  be  no  hâve  to  in  the  case.  You  shall  do 
as  you  like  best— quite  freely,  remember  that.  But  I  do 
not  èven  wish  It.  If  you  come  with  me,  it  will  be  ouly 
when  I  go  *  for  good.'  " 

"  And  that  will  be,  madame " 

"Say  grandmamma,  my  little  onc.  Oh  f  not  for 
wecks  to  come,  I  foresee  that.  You  must  be  thoroughly 
reconciled  to  the  change  before  we  leave  St  Gildas. 
Now  go  and  send  your  doctor."  ., 

Snowball  goes,  and  the  doctor  comes  and  takcs  a  seat 
beside  madame,  and  it  is  a  very  prolonged  and  earnest 
conversation  that  fol}ows.  For  Snwvball,  she  goes  to 
Reoe,  straight  ^s  the  needle  to  the  north  star.  He  ia . 
leaning  against  a  pillar  in  an  angle  of  the  room,  and 
-.1  _i        ••         y|i^  comes  npg    A 


and  two  pathetic  young  eyes  look  up. 
"René!" 
«<Ye%SnowbftU.'*, 


^r  a 


ît^'a^"''»  h 


^■i^" 


T'- 


f\ 


» 


D£    FRANCE:^     'm 


a4r 


«1 


Is  ît  not  ^viXwX-^éioful r—z.  long,  hard,  tensks  breatH. 
•*Oh  !  René,  do  you  sUppose  she  is  iny  grandraother  ?" 

"I  see  no  reason  todoubt  it  I  really  cannot  belîeve 
any  old  lady,  however  eccentric,  would  come,  in  cold 
blood,  a|ïd  claim  you^  if  stern  duty  did  not  drive  her  to 


'■•\ 


ît. 

Even  in  this  suprême  moment,  René  cannot  qùite^ay 
aside  the  famillar  style  of  snubbing,  althoùgh  his  tOAC 
and  look  are  unmistakably  dreary.  ,  ' 

"René"— prathetically— "don't  be  horrid.  I  know  iè 
îsnotin  your  nature  to,be  anything  else,  but  just  for 
once,^assume  a  virtue,  if  you  hâve  it  not'  Do  you  know 
sbe  is  going  to  takc  me  aw^y  ?"  • 

"  Poor  old  lady  !" 

«René "  /  "  ^  ^ 

«  I  mean,*'  kene  says,  laughing,  but  ruçfûlly,  "Pam 
awfully  sorry,  upon    my;  word,   I  am,   Snoi^ball.    Of 
course^  I  am  going  away  myselfi  it  miy  be'for  years,  and 
Jt  may  be  forever,  as  Kàthreen  Mavourneen  says — —•" 

"  K^bleen  MavoMi'neçA  says  nothing  of  the  sort.    It 
waè- "  ,  ' 

."'Well,  theôther  fellow  ;  the  fact  i-emaîns,  whatéver 
Irisbman  saîd  it.  But  while  away  éhjo^ing  life  in  New 
York,  and  goingf-  in  for  sculpture  as  a  profession,  and 
anatomy  ^s  a  study,  and  artists  and  doctors  in  embryo 
for  cbums,  it  would  hâve  becn  soothing  to  femember 
that  you  were  pining  in  your  lonel|nè^8  herè,  the  last 
rose  of  sumquer,  a  soit  of  vestal  virçin  oh  Isle  Perdrix, 
growing  up  for  mé  ex^essly,^d  countihg  the  hours 
until  my  return.  Nôw  ail  that  is  at  an  end,  and  you  are 
going  to  start  in  Ufe  on  yoilrl^own  hook,  and  set  up,  I 
dare  say,  for  an  heiress.  ï  doir't  wish  your  long-lost 
grandmother  any  harm,  Snowball,  but  if  we  everget  her 
on  Dfee Tslinai  she  shaUnâver  leavç  ît  afîve  !""  T 

•^    A  pause. 

.     Snowball  stands,  a  youthful  picture  of  pallid  wpe}* 
René  stands  nervously  ^twisting  the  ends  61  a  still  inno-  * 


'ix 


'V, 


■ta 


^fÇ# 


\J^ji.i 


■;i^-- 


>43'      ^  **4^/JSçhf  Ô    PLAIS4NT   PAYS    ' 


cent  and  vyouthful  looking  mustache,  and  fçeling  sbro 

and  Savage,  althougl^  his  manner  of  expressing  thèse 

.  émotions  is  </<?^a^<r  enough.  b        *c 

«  I  wi^h  she  wëre  at  the  bottom  of  Bay  Chalette  r  he 

fburstsforth,atlast.    «  Confound  the  old  dame  !    After 

^sertmg  you  ail  thèse  yèârs,  and  ^ever  çoncerning  her- 

self  in  the  slightest  degree  to  know  whether  you  Were 

'  d^'tgor""^'  '"^  ''—  °'''^*°^  ^^^^"^  >^^"'    Snowball, 
"  I  must,"  mournfully. 
"  When  does  she  propose  to  taxe  you  ?" 

n.Jf^i?ST'"  '  ^'^  *'^^*^y'"  '^^  ^y^'  "which  will  be 
never  if  I  hâve  my  own  way.     You  should  bave  heard 

her,  René;  one  would  thipk  I  was  a  prize-something 
/precious  and  peerless— to  hear  her  go  on  !" 
ck  •i^^  •'",»'elapsing  into  cynicisms,.  "  she'îl  get  over  that 
She  doesn  t  knbw  you,  you  see.    I  say.  where  does  she 
Iive  when  at  home?"  «^s  »««? 

♦.rV'^*'''°''^°T*    ^  °*'^^'"  *'^^^-   ^^'  does  it  mat- 
lerr  aespainngly.  , 

vJ^^-"^/"**"^';,  ^^  *'  ^'  ^"  New  York  I  could  see 

For  me-I  will  address  myself  to  her  no  more.  I  am 
o«ly  mortal-my  feelin^s  might  rise  to  the  surface,  and 
there  might  be  a  traged^,  I  am  ail  at  home  in  my  ;nat. 
omy,  Snowball.  I  could  run  her  under  the  fifth  rib,  and 
9he  would  be  out  of  the  world  and  out  of  misçhief  bifore 

she  knew  what  had  hurt  her -" 

:     «René,  don't  talk  in  that  dreadful  way,  please.    Are 
you  gomg  home  after  this  is  over?" 

Roing?to""'"     """"   '""'  "^^'^  ^°  "^  y°"  -«  ^ 

««Hi^^'^%  ^  S"*  ^"^'^S:.  I  shall  remain  on  the  island 
ïr  "T"„  9^  ^®°^  ^^  s*»a"  I  do?  I  Lte  to  eo 
-Hûw.ghaU,Il€aveyouitlH    And  when  J^^  ' 


cornes 


t>gck -"  émotion  chokes  further  words. 

A"^*^^  °**'**^  Johnny!     There  are  othcrs  in  tlit 


^■n 


s      :A'ï%  ^^.g^l^yî'-'t'^^c"    ^' 


•-vil 


^^'r 


■c 


^B   FRANCE^ 


«49 


Wrid,  though  you  never  seem  to  think  so  I  Snowball  " 
earnestly,  "if  you  really  don't  want  to  go,  ^V  go  She 
cannot  tnake  you."  e  »  '•*^  '  go.    one 

eut  Snowball  shakes  her  head,  and  wipes  her  cyc«. 
W.1  \       ""t  *^^*3^  René;  Ibelong  to  her,  not  to  any- 
bôdy  hère.     But  it  b-b-breaks  my  hwrt "  ^ 

shië/ wt  ^f  K  t°  °î^  ^''°*'""  '"  ^«^»"«  Rêne,  from- 
crv^'h.         °f,i*f»'''h*«  ^ops  remorsefully.    "Don't 

point  of  your  nose  pink  !"  "" 

A  pause.  ' 

"  You  will  Write,  I  suppose  ?"  gloomily. 
"Oh,  yes."     -  '  . 

The  pink  suggestion  has  its  cffect    Snowball  driea 
her  eyes,  and  represses  d  last  sniff  or  two. 

Another  gloomy  pause. 
^«And,  Snowball!"  struck    by  a   sudden   alahning 

"  Yes,  René." 

knoiJ'^t?  P  '^'  ,^«"°^-'he  nephew,  or  cousin,  you 
know.  M.  Paul  told  us  of  him.  He  lives  with  this  old 
lady-hang  her  !  and  was  to  be  her  heir/'     ^ 

X  es* 

"Well.     H«?  isn't  married." 
.    "No?"notseeing  thedrift    •     • 
"  No,  Snowball  !" 
"  Yes,  René."  .  - 

"  Kw  won't  marry  him  !" 
Then^t^r  ^  ^!fy  Pfolonged  "Oh?"  of  immense amare; 

"be'l^^:°if  -'"''^  T"  ^y«  R«n«.  not  looking  at  îier; 
lik^lv  h^  •,!'  t  °'^  *"  ''''  everlasting  hilla.  Ve^' 
^g£j6  mil  ask  you,  though.   y^    had  bettef  liot^ 

^     «Well  ?"  imperiously,  «  not  what  ?" 

Marry^^ny  one,  in  fact  I    Fellows  want  to  many  m 


B 


T"^  ■■/■■ 


J 

-*  — » 


\>if 


■5S'; 


•.'I* 


,■■>&/ 1,1. 


'Hî. 


'i-^'îïi 


250         *' ADIEU t    0    PLAISANT   PAYS  '      / 

heiress,  don't  you  know— fortune-huntersand  vauriens  of 
that  sort.     But  you  woii't,  will  you  ?" 

"No  !"  says  Snowball,  and  it  is  the  oM  sàucy,  défiant 
Snowball  air  in  a  moment.  *i-No,  René,  dear.  Having 
known  and  loved  jrou  ail  my  life,  how  could  I  ever  look 
twice  at  any  othy  ms(fe  ?  I  will  wait  for  you,  num  frère, 
until  you  gfow  up  !" 

And  then  laughing  over  her  shouiaer,  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots,  turns  her  pretty  shoulder  to  this  darkling 
young  Bothwell,  and  flits  away  to  join  her  royal  sister, 
Blanche  of  Castile— in  ^every-day  life  Mlle.  Innocente 
Desereaux. 


H'^ 


A"- 

W^ 

\> 


It  is  the  evening  of  the  last  day,  two  weeks  later. 
Her.^oat  is  on  the  shore,  and  her  bark  mig/U  be  on  the 
sea,  only  they  happeq  to  be  going  by  the  4.50  up  express. 
And  Spowball  and  René  are  pacing  the  sands  of  Isle 
Perdrix  for  l(be  last  time.  Ail  adieux  hâve  beeif  made, 
everything  ha^  been  arranged  ;  Dt.  Macdonald,  with 
tears  in  ^lis  e^s,  has  bidden  her  go;  Mère  Maddelena 
indorsès  his  Abords,  her  trunk  is  packed  ;  madame  la  bonne 
maman  waits  ttmpatientlyj  jealously,  to  bear  away  her 
treasure-trove.  In  tliese  two  weeks  slie  has  grown  pas- 
sionately  fond  of  the  child— it  is  Snowball's  sunny  nature 
to  work  her  way  into  people's  hearts. 

'  Fof  René— well,  he  has  "looked  at  her  as  one  who 
awakes  "— «-looked  at  her  with  eyes  new-opened  fi'om  the 
moment  she  shone  forth  La  Reine  Blanche  ! 

r 

*'  My  patb  runs  east,  and  henB  nins  west, 
An^  each  a  choaen  'way  ; 
But  qow— oh  !  for  aome  word,  some  chana,    ' 
By  wUcb  to  bid  her  sUy  1" 

Something  like  this  is  in  his  thoughts,  a  cold  ache 
mnd  fear  of  the  future  fills  him.    She  is  going-~going 


ptfiïo  a  World,  brighter,  mirer  thàn  his,  Wr  ouT of Tili" 
réach.  *She  is  to  be  an  heiress,  a  belle,  a  queen  of 
soçi^ty.    Aûd  he— well,  he  will  hâve  his  heart's  désire--*- 


,4iI^i.,V: 


.'^1 


w 


^ir'"'""'  ''''rt*'^    ''j';'5' 


fi    rt 


<    ^'  *J. 


DE    FRANCE,"* 


vauriens  of 


«S», 


;  he  will  be  a  soulptor  if  it  is  in  hiin--ii  marble-carrer,  at 
the  least,  and  dwelling  in  a  world  of  which  she  wiU 
know  nothmg.     He  may  return  hère,  but  there  will  bo 
no  Snowball  to  meet  and  welçome  him  with  radiant  eyes 
and  smile.     And  he  feels  he  would  give  ail  his  hopes. 
the  best  years  of  his  life,  to  keep  her  hère,  to  know,  to 
know  she  remains  waiting  hi|^oming,  rejoicing  in^is 
success-his  very  own.    A  selEs^  wish,  it  may  be,  but  a 
most  thoroughly  natural  and  maisculine  one.     He  thinks 
of  the  story  of  the  Arabian  génie  ^ho  carriéd  hisprincéss 
about^the  world  with  him,  safely  locked  up  in  a  glass 
box-he  understands  the  génie,  and  his  sympathies  are 
with  him.    After  to-day,  who  is  to  tell  whether  he  will 
ever  look  tipon  her  more?    It  is  a  jealous  old  giand- 
mamma  that,  who  waits,  one  who  will  know  hQ<^  to 
guardherown. 

They  walk  in  silence,  arrt  in  arm.  Old  Tim  and  the* 
boat  Vait,  their  good-by  will  be  hère,  where  no  eye. 
unless  the  fish-hawks  are  on  the  lookout,  can  behoIdT 
And  they  are  silent.  In  life's  supremest  hours  there  i^ 
never  much  to  be  said  ;  the  hëart  is  too  full.  The  yellow 
baze  and  hush  of  a  sweet  summer  day  lies  over  sea  and 
land,  the  bay  glitters,  the  sky  is  deepest  blue,  the  little 
oïly  waves  lap  and  whisper.    Isle  Perdrix  looks  a  very 

oaven  of  peace  and  rest 

;  ■  ''     s 

**  Adieu  !  G  plaisant  pays  de  Frànoe, 
*0  ma  patrie  I 
La  plus  chérie, 
fini  a  Bourre  ma  jeune  enfance  • 

Adieu,  Fiance,  adieal"*  »  '      ■ 

sîngs  Snowball,  sôftly,  not  knowing  she  sings.  She 
wears  a  traveling  suit  of  pale  gray,  lit  with  ribbons  the 
hue  of  her  eyes,  a  gray  hat  and  feather,  ail  the  bounteous 

palc^gojd^iair  falliug  Iree;    Sfag^p^k^  sad  her  wofda^^ 
break  the  spell.  ,  .  ^ 

V  It  will  be  lonely  for  Johnny,  wlyen  he  cornes,"  she 
says.  In  the  same  soft.voice,  "you  aad  me  gone,  René." 


/A 


¥' 


«5»         *^ ADIEU!    O    PLAlSAfft   PAYS 

"Always  Johnny,"he  says,  impàtiently.  "Ibclieve 
ypu  care  a  thousand  tittie3  more  for  johnny  than  you  do 
for— any  one  else  in  the  world." 

_   "I  love  Johnny,"  she  says, «gently  ;  « don't  be  cross, 
I  René— now.    I  like  you,  too." 

j      "  Love  —  like  !     Snowball,  you   always   cared   for 
\    Johnnjr  most" 

\  •  .  "Did  I?    I  care  for  you,  too,  René.    Oh  1  René  ! 
:  René  !  I  ain  sofry  to  go."  '  \ 

i*      "Areyou,  Snowball?    Really,  truly  sorry  r  \ 

I       He  stops,  and  catches  her  hands,  a  swift  flush  rising 
OVer  his  dusk  face,  a  quick  fire  flashing  in  îiis  brown 
', ^és,  "  sorry  to  go  ?    Sorry  to  go  from  tne  r 
i;     "Sorry,  sorry,  sorry?    Don't  you  know  I  am  ?    It 
has  been  sucji  a  good  life,  every  day  of  it— ail  happy,,  ail 
full  as  they  could  hold  of  pleasant  things,  and  thoughts,* 
ând  people.    And  I  go  from  ail  tUat. }  René,  nothlng 
that  can  corne— be  it  wbat  it  may-^will  be  balf  as  dear 
as  what  I  leave."- 
Jf      "You  mean  that  !    Snowball,   Snowball,  you    will 

not  forgçt  us — ^you  will  not  forget  me " 

*^  Never,  René  !     Never  ^yhile  I  live  !     You— j'ou  ail 
—will  be  more  to  me  than  the  whole  world  besides." 
,     ,       "Ahl  you  sayso  now,  but  you  don't  khow.     And 
people  change.    And  it  is  such  a  différent  life  you  are 

going  to.    Snowball,  if  I  thought  you  would  forget " 

He  stops,  his  heart  is  passionately  full,  full  to  overflow- 
ing,  but  what  is  there  he  may  say  ! 

"I  never  will.    I  am  not  like  that.    I  will  write  to 

you  often— often*.  J  will  come  back  herë,  wheneyer  I 

.  may.    And  we  naay  meet,  René— you  and  I— out  in  that 

•     world   beyond    Dree   Isle.    Give  my   dearest^love  to 

Johnny,  when  he  comes  back,  if  you  sec  hîm  before  I  do. 

And  René— my  brother- forgive  me  for  ail  the  things  > 

„ J^Yg,^4iJor  ajl  the  times  T  hayg  madc  you  angry  in.1 


past.    I  likéd  you  dearly,  dearly  through  it  ail  !' 

Forgive  her  î     Ôld^Tim  is  waiting  impatientijt— it 


\ 


■4- 


•Mj^^^^à-.d%pfi^fJ&..kù 


i  •  1.  ■ 


\ 


-O^    FRANCE  r* 


'^i^. 
y 


wlll  be  fuU  titne  to  light  the  lamp  before  he  gets  back 
from  the  other  sidd  Will  they  never  hâve  done  stand- 
ing  there,  holding  hands,  and  saying  good-by.  It  is  a 
blessed  release,  Timothy  is  thinking  in  the  depths  of  hls 
misanthropie  old  soûl,  as  he  sits  and  smokes  his  dudeen. 
sure  there  was  iver  an'  always  mischafe  and  divilment 

the  isï^id  ""^^'  ^^  °°'^''''  ^^"^  '^'''^^  ^^^  ^"^  "«'  ^"'-^«^ 

r  1,  "^M.  ^®'  *"*'  ^**'®*"  Raynay— sure  they  did  be  fightin* 

tH^  ^/^f°u^  ^'f'I  "°"^"''  "°°"'  *°'  "ig^'»"  »-uminates 
Tim  -  ah  theres  for  ye  now,  afther  it-houldin'  hans 
as  if  it  was  playin'  ring-a-rosy  they  wor,  instid  o'  jumpin' 
put  o  their  skins  wid  joy-in  their  sleeves.    Dear  knows 

Sno^a-  "^  ^^*  '*'^"''"  ^"""^^^^^  t^«^  sa°»e  Miss 

It  isoyer     Snowball  is  hère,  ninning  with  red  eyes 
down  to  the  boat,  and  René  is  standing  where  she  ha^ 
left  him-motionless  in  the  twilight.    Old  Tim  shoves 
on  ;  the  b0at  glides  across  the  luminous  river.    St  Gil- 
das  side  isreached,  andgrandmamma  in  a  carriageawaits 
herdarlmg.    One  back ward  glance  the  giri  gives.    René 
15  standing  there  still,  with  that  most  desolate  of  feelings,   , 
left  behind."    She  can  just  discern  him,  a  loheLv  figuré  • 
on  the  isiand  shore.    T|ien  she  is  in  the  carriage   ia 
grandmamma's  arms,  her  tears  being  kissed  aw^y,  aûd  Islo 
Perdrix,  and  René,  and  St  Gildas  are  alreadjr  as  "davs 
tûat  are  over,  dreams  that  are  done."  '  ' 


K    «S 


^ 


.'"tî- 


^    A    M***    *^Ji    *■'. 


«-*  T        -.■'«•Vf"        '■p^,         -       S''"       '"'  '      «5"*-*        " 

'^-^^  A^,14,^**  ■^"^IK*'"  '■*.'^"*  "^'^||^|"«'>"1'  ''i>'^-^"'*;'<;^'c  ^i'f^'ï'""'*^'  '7f  ^Z-v^    '""  • 


-'^'  -   Q 


**NOT   AS    A    CIIILD 


i' 


/_j; . 


«< 


PART  THIRD. 

**  With  weepiair,  and  wlth  laughter, 
Still  U  thé  stoiy^told." 

"^         CHAPTER  XXL  ,       iJtl^ 
NOT  AS  A  CHILD  SHALL  WE  AGAIN   BEHOLD   HER.' 


N  old-fashioned  Roma^.  Cotise,  the  porione  cn- 
trance  and  stairs  paIaii#ittj5Jze, agréât  stone 
court,  whçre  a  fo.ui^^  'Y(^s  its  spray  high 
in  the  sunshine  ;  g^Mf^m-'M^hes,  ablaze  with 
color,  trees,  vines,  birds,  bu|t^Pb#|igreati  pots,  and 
vases  of  floweriog  plants  everySrhere,  *&^tues  gleam- 
ing  whitely  through  a  glow.  of  warmth  aWj^olor,  green 
and  gold.    Between  the  draperies  of  one  great  window 
there  is  a  last  glint  of  amber  light    You  sec  a  loggia, 
overrun  with  roses,  a  sky  fuU  of  leaves,  a  glimpse  <rf 
orange  trees,  with  their  deep  green  leaves,  ànd  sprinkle 
of  scented  snow,  and  jessamines,  în  profusion,  rearing 
their  çolid  cônes  of  flowery  gold.    Art  old-fashioned 
Roman  sa/a,  with  rather  faded  screçns,  of  amber  silk,  set 
in  finely  carved  f rames,  walls  nearly^  coyered  with  dark 
oil  paintings,  a  great  glossy  cabinet,  a  rairaclç  of  wood- 
carving,  and  that  last  pink  and  yellèw  glint  of  sans^ 
-lightîBg  tïp"all.        ""■  ~^^~^^^ — ^.o.-^ -..^-^^  -  ~^=^ 

,A  peaceful  picture,  a  rustle  of  myriad  leaves  in  th»" 
beautiful  twilight,  whose  air  Italiàns  so  jealously  tbut 


r-c 


t.»r. 


'■       ,.>^'' 


SkALL     WE    AGAIN    BEHOLD 


ri 


kER»  %si 

m-        ■ 

out  and  fear,  a  twitter  of  multitudinous  sléepy  birds, 
workmen  and  women  going  home,  a  crescent  moon  ris- 
ing,  like  a  rim  of  golden  crystal,  and  Azfg  Marias  ringing, 
until  îhe  evening  is  full  of  the  music  ôf  bells,  from 
storied  campanile  and  basilica,  to  little  arches  sfct  up 
against  tj^^^y.     It  is  ail  a  dreamy  old-world  picture, 
and  the  ^ppra^stands  heedless  of  the  dangerous  even- 
ing ^i^^p|K^B^gainst  the  tall  arohed  window,  glCzes 
oyer  i^lHËf^  that  drink  in  with  de^ght  tlie  quaint 
still  swc^t^P^jOT;  ail.   She  is  the  last  and  fàpïest  touch 
bf  that  fai^cftiire,  as  she  stands,  tall,  supple^raight  as 
a  dart,  slënder  as  a  young  willow  and  as  graceful.    The 
last  light  lingering.there,  in  the  fading  west,  falls  full  on 
her  face,  and  fails  to  find  in  it  a  flaw,  so  fair,  so  fine  is 
the  luster.of  the  skin,  so  délicate  the  small  features,  so 
perfect  in  its  faint  coloring,  the  tinge  of  rosy  light  in  the 
oyal  cheeks.   Her  abundant  hair,  of  palest  gold,  is  drawn 
back^  from  the  broad  forphead  ;  a  few  cloudy  pearls,  and 
^  kikït  of  jasmine,  in  thé  ambel-' glitte|t    She  Is  in  even- 
ing.dress,;a  trailing  lastrous  silk  pf  so  pale  a  blue  as  to 
be  almost  silvery — pink  roses  loop  the  rich  lace  of  the 
square  eut  corsage,  form  shoulder  knots,  and  drop  in 
clusters  hère  and  there  ^J^ÈK  the  lace  flounces.    She 
wrears  no  jewel^  except  flWfarge  starry  pearls  in  her 
hair  and  in  her  ears,  and  çlasping  the  girlish  thrçat  and 
large  beautiful  ârms.    Press  and  woman  are  lovely  alike, 
as  sheystands  with  Ibosely  clasped  hands  hanging,  lean- 
ing  against  the  gray  stone,  the  clustering  vines  fjfeiijfeiKig 
her,  dreamily  listeaing  to  the  music  of  the  Ave  Maria 
bells.  ' 

A  servant  entering  with  candies»  arouses  ber  pfes- 
ently.    She  looks  up  with  a  start.  »]  v 

"Already,  Annunciata  ?     Is  it-ko  late?     ijLnd  the 


sjgimmrrlifts  she  jmt  y  et  retumedl! 


JL 


¥- 


^    ••■L 


.,%« 


"  Not  yet,  signorina."  ^ 

The  young  lady  moves  awày  from  the  \^inilow,  and 


the  Italian  servant  closes  the  shutter  and  sh^ts  out  at 


«^      v" 


'^M' 


--'^ïaiarw  :*; 


"3^^:| 


^, 


'M 


»S6 


«-A^(9r   ^5    A    CH2ZD 


once  the  exquisite  evening  picture  and  the  malarious 
eveningair. 

"How  very  imprudent  grandmamma  is,"  the  signo- 
rma  says  glancing  at  the /<f«^z./tf  on  the  chimney  pièce, 
and  in  her  weak  state  of  health.     Sir  Vane  at  least 
3hould  know  b€tter." 

She  begins  slowly  walking  up  and  down  the  long 
sala,  ht  now  hy  the  wax-lights  and  one  large,  antique 
bronze  lamp.  Her  lustrons  yard-long  train  sweeps  be^ 
hmd  her,  her  pearls  shimmer  with  their  milky  whiteness 
in  the  ambèr  strands  of  her  hair,  in  the  silvery  blue  of 
her  dress.  So  pacing,  in  pretty  impatience,  she  is  a 
charming  vision.  Now  and  then  she  glances  at  the 
clock,  and  pauses  anxiously  to  listen  for  carriage  wheels 
in  the  court-yard. 

"Grandmamma  ought  not,"  she  says,  half-aloud. 
half-impatiently.  "Does  she  want  a  second  Roman 
lever,  before  she  is  fuUy  recovered  from  the  first?  Sir 
Vane  is  prudent  enough  where  his  own  comfort  and 
health  are  concerned— he  might  interest  himself.  a  little 
at  least,  in  hers." 

There  is  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  May  I  come  in,  dd^ry  ?"  says  a  voice,  and  the  door 
is  pushed  a  httle  way  open,  and  a  pleftsant  old  face-net 
Italian  by  any  «fieans— peeps  in. 

"Oh,  corne  in,  Mrs.  Tinker-come  in,  of  course  It 
is  too  early^o  go  yet,  and  even  if  ir  were  not,  I  codld 
not  go  until  grandmamma  cornes  back  from  tfer  drive. 
She  prpmised  to  return  early,  and  he^  it  is  quite  nine 
avlock,  and " 

»2  i!f  **L  ^^  °'^''^'  ^^"^^  *^  »'  y°"  are  saying?    Not 
bftck?    Bless  thy  pretty  heart,  my  deary,  she  has  beea  *■ 
Bàck  thèse  two  hours,  and  is  in  the  drawing-room  with 
compagir.    Leastways,  maybe  not^company;  s<y  to  say-^ 


Mr.  Carson." 


1  ^^**^  î°,'*^  ^^^^  P*"^®^  ^°  ^e»"  ^alk  to  regard  the  old 
,laay  wuh  blue,  surpriscd  eyes. 


;  .V„ 


.  i\.^.    n_«  ^  Sf ^,i»,*j'  .1    ^     ^"iiS^aï, 


"f*f  il 


'"'^  'â<'. 


ïï  iJ-" 


,:r 


-^  ir-*"'^     wP-sî»  » 


«■Trjfjç^i  ' 


^r» 


SHALL     WE    AGAIN    BEHOLD    HERr   257 

"  Why,  that  is  odd  !  Back  thèse  two  hours,'aMl^— 
Did  she  not  go  for  lier  usual  drive  on  the  Corso  with  Sir 
Vane,  then,  after  ail  ?" 

"  Not  wi'  Sir  Vane,  my  dgfry.  She  gave  him  the 
slip,  so  to  speak.  Madaras  doesn't  like  to  be  watched 
and  spied  on,  you  know.  Yes,  she  went  for  hei^^hve, 
but  not  wi'  Sir  Vane,  and  not  on  the  Corso.  She  we^t^ 
to  her  lawyer's,  and  brought  him  back  wi'  her  hère.  Aud 
there  they  are  in  the  drawing-room  ever  since  " 

"Well,  Mrs.  Tinker?"     - 

The  young  lady  says  this  interrogatively,  for  Mrs. 
Tinker  looks  wistful  and  important,  and  as  if  charged 
with  a  heavy  load  of  information,  and  anxious  to  go  oflf. 

"Eh,.  Dolores,  my  maid?— can't  'ee  guess  what's  the 
business  ?    Maybe  I  oughtn't  to  tell— but  ifs  gopd^  iïiws, 
and  l'm  right  glad  to  hâve  it  to  tell.    The  madame"—, 
coming  doser,  and  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper— "  Is 
making  her  will  !" 

"Heruwill!"  The  girl  repeats  the  words,  turning 
pale.  "Is— is  grandmamma  worse,  then?  Oh,  Mrs. 
Tinker,  surely  she  is  not  going  to " 

"  Bless  thy  tender  heart,  my  deary  !  No— it  isn't  that. 
But  she  is  old,  you  know,  and,  eh  !  my  dear,  we  none  o* 
us  can  go  on  living  forever,  and  it's  well  to  be  prepared. 
The  last  will  left  everything  to  him.  It  wouldn't  dote 
die  sudden-like,  and  leave  a  will  like  that.  So  there's  à 
new  one  to-day,  my  deary,  and  me  and  the  butler,  we've 
put  our  names  to  it.  And  seeing  that  l'm  that  long  ia 
her  service,  an(j  hâve  tried  to  do  my  duty  fairly  by  my 
good  mistress  she's  had  it  read  to  me.  And,  oh  !  Misa 
Dolores,  my  maid,  thanks  and  praise  be!  all's  left  to 
you,  or  neariy  ail.  And  who  has  a  right  to  your  own 
grandpapa's  money,  that  he  made  himself  in  lawf  ul  trade, 

'   nift  fmyn  Brf^w*o  /^Kilrl  y* 


She  lifts  one  of  the  slender  white  hands,  and  fondles 
and  kisses  it 

'^'Eh,  my  sweet,  but  there'il  be  a  great  heiress,  wben 


>1 


—■^-^ 


A'L. 


^t. 


\, 


^^'s^^^Xic-^^^^My 


1 

ï 

'r". 

1 

■ 

•if-,- 

■ 

yf 

^v-^ 

B 

!,( 

B 

r 

■__!■ 

'*    'a 

'^J^-:rm 


«58 


k-*.-"-t 


V  «*-;■'« 


"ir<9r  ^4^  ^ 


old  Tinker's  dead  and  gone.  l've-  bfeen  sore  afeard,  my 
^blrdie,  that  death  might  corne  before  I  would  see  this 
day.  I  couidn't  'bide  the  thought  qf  ail  that  nches  going 
'  to  him.  I  ne  ver  could  'bide  htm,  irom  first  to  last.  Ail 
for  himself,  my  deary,  and  longin^^:  fpr  the  day  to  corne 
that  would  make  him  master  over^  alh  But  that  day 
will  ne  ver  corne  now,  foi*  which  ^ise  and  thanks  f cr- 
ever be  !"        '  Jf 

The  girl  listens,  silent,  startlèd,  pale. 
"And  Sir  Vâne?"  sh,e  âsks.  ' 

"  Gets  a  share-nr^not  so  much,  but  enough  for  him. 
But  you  are  a  great,  great  heiress,  my  bairnie.  You  are 
your  grandmother's  rightful  heiress,  and  hâve  what  was 
left  to^him  before.  And  right  it  is  that  it  should  be  so. 
I  don't  hold  with  giving  the  children's  portion  to  the-  " 
"Tinker!" 

"  To  a  far  out  cousin's  son,  then  !    What  rights  has 
he,  alongside  o'  yours,  .Master  George's  own    bonnie 
•    daughter  ?  Don't  'ee  look  at  me  like  that,  honey  ;  it's  the 
old  madarae's  own,  to  do  what  she  likes  wiV' 

"  No,  no,  Mrs.  Tinker,  it  is  not.  I  mean  this  new 
will  is  unfair,  unjust.  What  !  ail  thèse  years  Sir  Vane 
has  been  led  to  expect  that  he  will  hâve  the  lion's  share 
—has  been  told  it  should  be  so,  and  now,  at  the  eleventh 

hour Tinker,  I  tnust  go  to  grandmamma.     It  must 

not  be." 

"Eh  !  my  maid,  that  you  can't.  The  lawyer  is  still 
there,  and  no  one  is  to  go  in  until  she  rings.  And  you 
wpuld  not  get  poor  old  Tinker  into  trouble,  would  you; 
my  bairn,  because  she  is  too  fond  of  you  to  hold  her 
^foolish  tongue  ?  The  mî^dame  did  not  mean  me  to  tell 
you  ;  she  wapts  to  do  that  %erself.  Wait,  my  deary,  until 
she  does  ;  theie  is  no  such  haste.  But  I  say  again,  and 
will  always  say,  that  it  is  a  right,  and  just,  and  proper 


=lnît 


"  There  is  the  bcll  now  !"  the  young  lady  exclaima 


.S-jy^ZZ   A^E    AGAÏN    BEHOLD    HERy>   259 

*'  Go,  Mrs.  Tinker,  and  tell  her  I  want  to  see  her.    Tell 
her  I  tnust  see  her  before  I  go  oirt." 

Some  of  the  6ld  impiriousness  of  Snowtall  is  in  the 

tone,andher"must"rulestheh6usehold.\Snbwball  it 
is,  and  y*t  no  such  jjerson  as  '^Snowball  Tri  lion  "  any 
more  exists,  not  ejrett  "  Dolores  Macdonald."  This  fair  ' 
and  stately  young  hdress,  in  pearls  and  roses,  and  sif- 
very  silk,  is  Miss  Vale'aline,  granddaughter  and  idol  of 
Madam  Valentine,  a  beauty  and  belle  by  right  divine  of 
her  0^9  lovely  face,  and  a  power  hère  among  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking  circle  of  the  Eternal  City. 

Three  years  hâve  gone  since  that  July  evening,  when 
Snowbaft's  blue  eyes  looked  through  her  tears  on  Isle 
Perdrix  an#St  Gildas.  Three  years,  ànd  those  blue 
eyes  hâve  looked  on  hâlf  the  world,  it  seems  |o  Iheir 
owner  since,.  but  never  more  on  that  childhood  Home 
Three  years,  in  which  many  masters,  much  money,  ^reut 

travel,  polished  Society,  hâve  dohe  ail  it  lies  withinîhetn 

to  do  for  the  island  hoiden,  the   trapezist's   dàug]iter. 

1  his  is  the  resuît  :  A  beauty  that  is  a  marvel  ;  a  grace^ 

that  leaves  nothi%  to  be  desired  ;  a  welLbred  repose  '^ 

manner,  that  even  an  ^acting  madame  can  find  no  faul^ 

with.    Som'ètimes  the  61d  fire  and  sparkle  strike  through 

but  rarely  m  grandmamma's  présence.     It  savors  of  the 

past.  aad  the  past  is  to  b#  forgotten— is  to  be  as  though 

it  had  never  been— persons,  places,  ail.     She  is  to  îorget 

she  ever  was  Snowball-ever  was  ânything  but  a  grace- 

ful  blonde  princess-royalfwith  servants  and  courtiers  to 

bow  down  and  do  her  hom»ige;  an  heiress,  with  the 

world  at  her  feet  ;  the  peerless  daughter  o|.all  the  Val- 

entines,  with  the  sang  azuré  of  greatness  iq  her  veins. 

And  the  girl  does  her  best,  not  to  forget,  but  to  please 

grandmamma,  by  appearing  as  though  she  did.     Thev 

4gVg"  «»?ll —rit-hjii'    wrtTtr-^- -^^i::;;^--^"  "^^^    ^   •  .       - — - — :^  — 


mamma's,  indeed,  waxes  on  the  idolâtrons.  Since  the 
loss  of  her  son,  hers  has  been  a  loveless  life,  a  dreary 
and  barren  life,  a  sandy  désert,  witiiout  one  green  spot 


;î=^» 


-.-*- 


v..^«f|8 


a6o 


«-ATi^r   :^5    ^    C>/Z2? 


But  this  girl  has  coin e,  and  ail  has  changed.    Sh7  Ws 
Vane  Valentine  profits  by  this\ofteni„g  chaL    Il« 

sand  things  loUomog  Aé  death  of  the  late  baronet-Dav  ' 
ing  off  mortgages,  establishinK  his  sister  «  v!i    ??^ 
Manor,  making  arrangements  VrtovTnlthJ*'*"""» 

^        tdaZ7ri»er'?r'^-    '>'°">»«-'>'«tCh^' 

ût^rn^trcnetis^r;  rBriv- 

ness  settled.  ;n  fine  health  and  spfrTts  Sir  vte  se'"o« 

and  die!    He  hardly  knew  where  to  find  her,  so  unsT 
tled  and  wandering  were  her  erratic  habits    but  M« 
Tmker  was  mostly  a  fixed  star;  he  could  ^„avs1nd 
her     He  went  to  the  house  in  ihe  suburbs  of  m» 
delphia,  a  sort  of  headquartérs  always.    He  found  mIs.' 
T.nker  there.  v.ce-regent,  awaiting  him,  and  a  îetîer 
a„/r    \  '""  '    ^''°«  "  '°  'he  number  of  Unes  brief 
-  êxprero"»    Ih'^  lr°"^  "™"«  '■"'  idion,aUc'a;Ti 


» 


a*BylhtDjf-ei5ç 


with  her  no  We,^r,S'^tu^r„'-r         '"  ^^^ 
totell  when  thsLt  Hm«     •  V  "'  ^""®  impossible 

w  teii  whcn  that  time  might  corne.    Her  good  Vane  wat 


/^^^3dê 


V3H»-^Jâj  f^* 


^JV-tiiJ^^ 


k  ^^Hf. 


VV  '*'.'•  /•^'^~  "^  >^'j.l*^»,* 


^S.^^m^MS.-MgA, 


to  amuse  himselfwell,  and  notbe^nxîou&Hesîtshold    ' 

He  sat  silent,  still,  the  fatal^  letter  in  his  hand     AnH 
the  rilt  '«.hewould  hâve  foiSd  a  model  with 

m^L;  J"*  be^beaten  and  baffled  like  this  » 

to  kee^iri""f'\'^^^^''  baronet,  with  nothing  left  ' 
IcrelTh^  i^'         ""^^^  "'"  ^"^^«««  barren  ancfstral 
acres,  the  ivy-^rown,  tunneled,  half-ruined  manor  with 
the  great  Valentine  fortune  «one  •    For  ail  ^m         î     ^ 

holds  leaving  htde  doubt  of  that.     Farewell  to  aîl  his 

"thTth7a?r  ÏTk  ''  ''^'  '^'  ^"^"^•^  ho^:,  freed  Lt 

the  thrali  of  debt,  restored  and  improved  ;  farewell  to 

hose  ambmous  dreams  'of  a  seat  in  Parliament  a  h",  e 

Koutft  for  his  wife.      Adieu   to  it  all-this  e-irl    fhi«     ' 

S  o^^^e^^  deceived-swindled  a^  „,an  ever  was 
-k  ?erta^?/  be  bas  so^e  right  t^Teel  ^11  this  rage     : 
iJl  *^^.îf^ly»s  a  fnghtful  fall.     A^hat  is  worse  it  is 
impossible  top^rout  his  wrath  ar-^  wrongru^'„  the 

I  h  K         >™t^«>*ess  ease.     Sh^s  gone,  her  «-tart. 
with  her.  whither  no  one  knows!ihe  striv;s  in  W^^ 
discover;  they  mightlhave  vlnished  ^uTof  thelSrld 
for ^11  trace  of  them  he  çan  fiL.  -  /     !*. 

thî.^''"!!'"  f  ^'  '"  \^^^  quest,Ud  thèse  months  db  him 
this  good-they  coqI  his  first  tlaze  of  wrath  and  brin^ 


w'^h  27'^'^'"^  ampleX-and  With  a  àou   fili'^d 
v!!!lïL'"L^"*^".^.«V«"d  galll  résolves  on  his  courS 


v^.k-  "v-c,,  rtuu  gau    résolves  on  his  course. 

Noehingcan  posslWy  fee  g.i„  J  by  a„g^.„„ch  I^^^ 


'«*« 


-..lÉS'i     .,1.  fjM;*     ^  I  ; 
•-.il  / 


',»&(•  ..-. 


iM  fiî: 


b^ 


»62        li         «ir<?r    AS 


^sîgnati|o.    He  i^ili;  accJSt  dis 


IwarifgralB  he  m 
he  will  reli^  notti 


ïe  wi 
%he  wi 


i^- 


i\ 


M 


iccepi^e^eàt  Ayith  'd%nity, 

'■■■•         p'  -«r-  -    o'^ciliâte  thç  bld  wd|nnan 

and  thè  y0Î^  oné^feif^will  WariljfbWe  hisdi»«MlAnd 

if  that  tfinéï^verxomesg    '^  -^«.^i'."'    "  -  '^^W"    ^ 

-     V^ne  4^1entinl^e|"fc^!^i)^8|^  long 

mustaçbe,  and  ^jis  e^à^lèa^^ïtfflar  pS^ohate, 

li&^i^t  good  tô  sie/    a'lj^3^%ùst  féturn  some 

li^^Bot  lost  that  is  in  danger;  perhaps  she  mày 

Éd  to  yielçl  hira  thè  jaiFgçr  share  yet.    It  is  his 

-^is  right  in  view  of  air^ese  years  of  waiting  and 

!Xjpiélcti*éi;on.     If  ail  sensé  of  jui||ljicfi  is  not  dead  in  Kath- 

herself  ;  she  must  be 
.silence  and  resolution 
le  Philadelphia  house, 


^y^îne.  Vàlentine,  she  niust  see 


m 


taçlf  to  see  it.     And  so  in  gri 
:^.3tr  yane  establishes  himself  in 
ajid  ^yaits  for  them  to  corne 

They  corne — fifteen  monthà  frôm  the  time  they  left 
St.  Gilda^.  And  fifteen  months  of\  travel,  of  masters,  of 
madamç's  Society,  hâve  done  much  for  the  wUd  girl  of 
Isje  Perdrix.  She  has  shot  up,  tall  anld  gracefql  as  a 
stem  of  wl^eat,  with  hair  like  its  pale  silken  tassels,  ail 
thalt  is  best  ahd  brightest  in  her  made  the  most  of,  the 
blonde  t;>eauty  enhanced  —  a  lovely,  womanly  girl  of 
eighteen.         :        .      '      .        ,         » 

A  vision  this  to  dazzle  any  man — giît  as  it  is  with 
refin^  gold.  Sir  Vane  Valentiqe  looks  on  with  un- 
dazzled  eyes.  He  is  too  defective  in  circulation;  toô 
cold-blooded,  too  wrapped  up  in  self,  to  be  a  susceptible 
man,  and  his  heart— such  narrowjigd  contracted  heàrt  as 
he  ever  has  had— Was  given  aw 
immature  of  eighteen  has  na 
whMwaits  for  him  in 
sl^imd  on  the  score  of 
hePfmith  waiting  for  himJ 


•^-one 

way  fortune. lies— If  thei-e  is 
make  the  sacrifice  even  <^ 


«-,» 


.ny  years  ago,    The 

for  him.    T^e  lady 

certainly  not  be 

Vbut  she  has  lQ|t 

to  do.  him  justice,  >His 

rëC    Stitttf 

',  he  is  prepared  to 

illa  Ronth  !    The 


1* 


■*^sy 


é' 


'  .■'■ivî.',!"^» V   uir-f.   H   fyjti.^K 


^.'*fe-^ 


-'  ;*■■■"•  \'""  /'    '  "'   ,  ''  ''■    '  ■■'-'■  ■"'*'>'■  V 

'TSEsi    CAMM  '  A    LADDIE'  ^  [ 

best  ^  Jjî^Rfe  has  been  wasted  ii  the  pursuit  of  this^ 
.^««/«te^-the  Valentine  fortune-without  it  the  Va     \ 
ennpe  name,  lands,  «itie,  aie  wor«  than  worthless     No 
matter  wha.  the  pride.  it  must  be  paid.    Co^e  w^t  mlv    ' 
oo,.,  „  .s  a  road  pa  „hich  there  oan  be  noturnlng  b^ï^     , 


!] 


m 


\^' 


'l  CHAPTER  XXIL      ^  ^  , 

"THERE  CAME  A  LADDIE  HÈRE  TO  WOO."  • 
^f^f"  ''IP'^.'y  èrn  !    He  looks  at  her  y,U„ 

tfiat  m^h    She  is  a  pretty  girl  at  eighteen- 

at  eight-and-twenty  she  will  be  a  mosl  beau. 

t.ful  woman..    He  might  do  wor«l    She  wiU  dô  Wm' 

honor.    And  he  preters  blondes  natumlly     ï  ,  thU  f^" 

Ml  men  w,ii  adm.re  fais  taste.  and  eoTy  him  his  luck 

ViE   -M*  '"^.'^™  "S"'-  'he  «ould  still  hTve  been  à 
g.Ided  p,II_to  be  taken  with  an  inward  grimace  oVtwo 
perhaps,  but  stj»  ,o  be  taken.    And  he  and  Cam^û  Routh 
need  not  part-quite.     Her  home  i,  with  h^  s    "r  as  * 

VaIendJl^"^'''^''^°  ■/"*''■''"  '"»'»"«<'  "  M^nor 
Kv«"f^°     '  """û?  '°'""'*  8àlden  âge  to  corne.'  • 
^w  «^Rl^nes  ihis  Dolores,  it  foUows,  as  a  matter 

of  his  «vrae  as  the  aoCestral  elms,  or  Dorbthy  herse» 

teite^°H.'riu/""1,'""5  '°  ""'y  «««'»■»  Valentin^s       ^ 
■as  aiways  doïe,  even  after  Sij  Vane  and  Ladv  Valen       <^ 
jme  «,um  fron,  .h«(rwéddi«g  tou^    Thls^Z  b«^«  '' 


•î^ 


.K, 


:;?fe. 


^x.*-^!^. 


1'^'- 


?^ 


> 


v 


^smî^&'^ia.iiK.i 


'i    1,  Hi 


^ 


''TBERE  Came  a  laddie 


'j 


house  mistress.     And  Cousin  Camilla  will    remain— 
prime  minister.   He  grows  quite  complacent  as  he  settle» 
it  thus-^after  ail,  matters  mi^ht  be  worse  ;  it  is  the  con- 
summation  that  will  présent  itself  as  most  désirable  to 
the  mind  pf  Madam  Valentind^ 
'      ^  It  has  àlready  |done  so.   The  truth  is,  madame,  stronff- 
minded  though  ihe  be,  has  been  a  little  afraid  ofthe 
meeting  with  Sir  Vane— her  gfanddaughter  by  her  side 
But  he  has  disappoînted  her  agreeably— if  there  can  be 
such  a  thing;  he  is  dignified,  it  is  true,'and  silent,  but 
not  sullen,  and  not  more  than  the  situation  justifies. 

"  I  do-  not  prétend  Iwas  not  ihdignant  at  first,"  he 
says  to  her,  «  and  ^eeply  disappointed.  You  see,  I  never 
thoug,ht  of  such  a  thing  as  your  going  to  St.  Gildas  and 
fall^ng  m  love  after  this  fashion  with  the  prçtty  girl 
there.  She  is  charming  eiîdlugh  to  make  almost  any  one 
fall  m  love  with  her,  I  admit,  but  then  that  sort  of^thini? 
did  not  seem  in  the  least  like  you.  Still  it  is  natural  I 
suppose,"  with  a  sigh,  "  and.my  ioss  is  her  gain." 

"It  need  ndl  be  your  Ioss  — unless  you  wish,"  says 
madame.  She  is  seated  at  a  table,  ifdying  with  a  pearl 
paper-knife,  and  does  not  look  up. 

There  iSia  pause.  - 

^"  I  think  I  understand,"  Sir  Va^ie  says,  gravely  ^  Of 
course,^  don't  exactly  claim  to  %  disiiÉfrêstCcfeM  this 
matter— it  wpuld  not  be  in  humaii  iCàiure-^d  after  ail 
thèse  years  of  waiting.  The  best  of  iny  life  is  gone-I 
am  fit  for  nothing  now,  afier  yieiding  up'.ull  ihese  yeàrs 
m  the  expectation  of  beinga  rich  man  ^  thife  end.  With.  ^^ 
ont  wealth  to  support  it,  the  title  mus^\  siWk  ;  Valentinê 
Manor  and  park  must  go.  AU  this  you  know  ;  compen  • 
sation  w  due  to  me  in  justice.  ,We  might.combine  our 
interest,  as  you  say.    Imight  mârry  M'iss  Valh^tlne." 

"  As  you  say  !"  nfôdâme  retorts,  quickly,  almost  ai# 
lyibL-^   "  I  havft  jiever  soid  it  " 


"No?    I  thought  thatwas  your  meaning.    Does  it 


*Ss^t*-  ... 


\ 


•^'&^\  ' 


«■ï 


'"?"'<;  f 


V.->',H-'^' 


I 


ff£B£    TO     WOO, 


vi 


'V' 


-t^\ 


^att^ 


«65 

not  st|ke  you  as  the  simplest-the  ônly  wav  of  recon 
cilmg  ihe  difficulty  ?"•  ^     ^       Çecon- 

Anèther  pause.  ■.  ^  " 

ma.ftll     M^/'^"''*'^  '^"'  ^^'^'  ^^^^'  passionleés,  by  the 

|tX|he?witî  a    0^0'  eWH  ''"''  '^^  '^'^'^'  ^"'  ^^ 
may  il  as  sTJ  In^t      .    u      "  ""^""^  presentiment,4f 

aI  T^^^""  aversion,  for  which  she  cannot  acconnt 
and  Ms  face  darkens  as  ïie  sees  it.  account, 

/hat  is  your  objection  ?"  he  coldly  asks. 
f  ^here  is  a  great  disparity,"  madame  says.    «More 
than^twenty  years.     It  is  too  much."  ^  "    ^ 

yo^^th^jc  lus  ^^^^  .a„-^LcC|^ 

There  is  suppressed  passion  in  his  tone  fir^i'n  hî. 
eye^  anger  i„  his  voice.  Madame  look^p.  A  l^ 
hasbeen  struck  from  the  manhood  withiû  Um,anne 
likes  him  none  the  less  for  it. 

unlntf  *^"  r""""^'  ■"?'S°°''  ^'"'^•"  ^he  answers,  not 
ungently.       Compensation  is  due  you.    I  admit  it     M, 

gmnddaughter  is  young-she  has'^seen  noS^g  oî  "^ 

world  m  one  sensé,  in  spite  of  her  fifte9«àtos  of 

yït"    a°bt  ?f°f  T:  ^"^  '=  "  child^li^lnd 
years_a  beautiful  and  innocent  child.    Give  her  tiine 
et  her  see  a  little  of  life  before  we  trouble  her  wlS  Ou»       ' 
..ons  of  marriage,  or  fortunes  at  stake.    I  love  herTe^ 

teppmess.    If  you  can  make  it,  I  am  willing-after  a 
,hç-to  res.gn  her  to  you.    Indeed,  in  many  wavs  for 

kn'orvru"'v ''"'""'  "f''  '"  ^  yo"  her  h-^nd 
know  you.    You  are  of  one  rare-thf.  honor  of  ou. 


4^W  famUy.    But  in  spite  f,f  thi^  I  shall  never  force  S 
J^eart.  her,  mcUnation»,  If-^„  a  year  from  now  say!I 


*1^&M^ 


*  1 1 


..^1 


r  /f't  V**. 


^ 

n 


!■  ^"^^  '•'' '    .i^  f^7.'  "%  ' 


^ffBRB:VAME   À    LADDL 


\% 


f^n  Win  her.  do  sp.    I  sl^allfavor  your  sait     ShouM 

.^e  is  to  be|#lli!¥ggS5ithftf^>mùst  be  understood     the 
bulk  of  hergrandfatlfer's  fortune  shall  goThl  Tas 
your  w,fe,  it  will  corne  to  you  indirectly,  tl^rou^h^r 
but  the  mcome  only-the  fortune  itself  shall  be  settled 
upon  her  and  her  children.    She  is  George's  daughtt 

voLT'''  "^"''  '""'  ^  pammount  no^w.  MeS 
your  chances  are  good;  you  will  be  with  her;  she  wl 
see  you  daily,  and  learn  tp  care  for  you-I  h^pe  S 
jou-you  remember  the  words  ôf  Shakespe^reT 

"  *Tbe  tfan  that  hath  a  longue  I  say  is 
If  with  that  tongue  he  cannot  win  a 

She  rises  with  a  smile  as  she  says  it,  and  holds  o 
^^ods,  more  gently  than  he  has  i;er  knc^lnl^ 

ki.dly''""^Sr^  ^.?'  r^^««'  «»y  dear^ne,"  she  says 

A^'    #*W'^^®  '*  »s  in  you  to  makeagood  husband  • 

and  my  Doloris  is  a  mafefor  a  king  î"     "         ^"^^and , 

MSjp  I  speék  td  héir,  auntr  he  asks,  holding  the 
MPr  sh0  extends,  in  both  Tiis,  «  or  shall  I-L"        ^ 
'[    *lf-"  ^®  interrupts  ;  «tfot  yèt-not  for  a  vear  at 

and  fofee.     Wait,  thfs  px^;  more  y^,  anji  wdo  and  win 
and  wear  her  ther^çu  c^/^'^^ 

So4^  Sir  Vafte  Valentine,  with 

""^  V^e«i°^  meets  him,  and  giyes  him  one  sUm 


3ntii 


wMe-hand^aéé^ltwk^hfnr^r 


Wîtr theTrank  inrpcrtT 

-        ?iv      ;■"■,■ 

■  •" .'.  "  -.-  ■ 


nence  of  eighteen. 


1       ,  r  „ 


^%^ 


-    -4' 


■ff^f  ;ti.ii^V.}'S|V;\?è^Vi^,;,.,  ;.;  .^, 


'**'  T^lsli'î 


f^^ 


i  year  at          ■ 
nfettered          ■ 
md  win,           1 

ine,wilh          1 
hand  to           M 
:cly,  and           ■ 
urc,  and           ■ 

re  a  per-          ■ 

«I 


^£ji£  TO  woor 

ton"Jv'  '*^"'ye"ow,  sourish;  littlé  bald  spot  on  the 

top  of  h,s  head  ;  eyes  like  jet  beads-don't  think  I  shall 

ike  him      say  the  saucy,  blue,  fear^gfes  eyes.     "  Oh  '  to 

hâve  Johnny  here-my  own  evér  dear^st  Johnny  !_«r 

Tl^T  V^^  ^^^^^  ^«  t°°  delightful  for  anvthing 
if  only  ,t  wasn  t  quite  so  prim  and  ceremonious, 'and  if 
only  I  had  my  two  Ijoys." 

"And  itttîems  to  me  I  hâve  seen  â'irVane  Valentine-. 
somewhere  before  "  she  adds,  taking  a  second  survey  of 

t-fh  .K       ^^^  ^^"^'■^^  '^^  P^^^'^ff  &"««t  of  Isle  Perdrix 
with  the  most  careless  and  casual  of  glanées. 

Miss  Dglores  Valentine  has  çertainly  not  got  h4r 
ihir^irT;  ^"^  ^'^^  ^^««ot  hâve  everything.  She4^ 
Z?  f-  '^"  Ç«^l^"d  Pleasant  things  of  this  life.  She 
does  not  include  the  professorfVho  sUll  visit  her-her 
music,and  German,  and  dravving  masters-ia  that  cate- 
flT  ,^"'/^«.^^^  '^«'-  best  to  please  grandmamma,  and 
to  m  1 J'  ^ï?"'"i^"^  ^^"Sring  by  instinct,  as  a  kitten  takes 
InH  ;•  r^n'^  '^^  *'  proficient  in,  of  course  ;  German 
and  Itahan  follow  in  due  order.    She  is  apt  aid  ready, 

l.Tvl  T^^"  ^"^  ^''^'  ^^^^  P'-^^^^^ïy  '<^  be  a  very'ac: 
comphshed  young  woman  indeed.     Mîidame  instiUs  the 

m  the  daugl^ter  of  a  hundred  ValeMtfl|-  She  reads  a 
great  deal-history,  travels,  biogm|i)iEtion,  poetry- 
,  she  is  quite  ravenpus  in  the  mattér  oï  books  ;  iearns 
riding,  and  delïghts  in  daily  gallops  over  the  hills  and 
far  avvay.  with  a  groom  behind  her.     In  a  quiet  xvay  she 

Tet^r  fuï  T^""^^  ^"^*  °^  '""''^'y  '  Soei  oui  more  or 
he  on.^^  i'  innoxious  evening  parties,  the  theater.  ' 
the  opéra  ;  .s  admired  whcrever  she  goes  as  a  beauty  and 
an  heiress  and  leads  altogcther  quite  a  charmed  life.  It 
[^  ^^'•y  ^'^«^^"^  "fe  '^  every  xvny  from  thnt'nld  nnc 
wiar  ott  noxv  that  ît  seems  like  a  dream,  but,  in*  its  difl 
ferent  way,  to  the  full  as  good. 

Every  day,  every  hour,  is  full  to  ovcrfiowing  with 


,'itSAr  S^E 


iiÀ 


% 


t. 


I. 


^ï: 


.î 


■  <' 


L^..-- 


7"  •  'k'^'^'-I'^'. 


268 


■  ■'■■  -::i.»,   ■.-•    ■'    -■'      I*  .    ^'  ■       ..  .  X'-  i;'^-'v; 

'*THERE    CAME    A    LADDIB     '.'       ^ 


bright  and  pleasant  life.     She  regrets  her  boys,  and 
writcs  to  them  when  she  bas  time  to  tbink-to  Mère 
Maddelena,   too,  and  ber  friend   Innocente  Desereaux, 
but  tbeir  memory  is  a  trifle  dimmed  by  time,  and  ab- 
sence,  and   new  delights.     Even   Sir  Vane,   seen   with 
da.ly  familiar  eyes,  grows  less  gruesome,  less  elderlv 
becomes  indeed   ratber  a  favorite    cavalier  servant,  a 
fnend  and  cousin,   witbout  wbom   the  smoothly-oiled 
wheels  of  l,fe  migbt  jar  a  little.     «e  ^o  sees  to  the  tbou- 
sand  and  one  little  bourly  comfprts-tbe  pleasant  p,fifs 
soins  that  go  to  make  up  life,  that  she  finds  berself  won- 
_      dering  sometimes  bow  she' and  grandmamma  would  ever 
get  on  witbout  bim.     Wben  be  rides  out  with  ber,  be  is 
a  mucb  more  agreeable  escort  than  the  groom  ;  be  at- 
tends  them   everyvvbere  ;   Iialf  the  good  tbings  she  so 
mucb  enjoys  would  be  unattainable  witbout  bim.     And 
he  is  realiy  not  so  elderly-and  then  be  bas  a  tifcle,  aAd 
is  treated  wuh  déférence,  and  is,  taken  as  a  wbolé,  the 
sort  of  cavalier  one  can  be  ratber  proud  of;    And  the 
summing-up  of  the  whole  tbing  is  that  Miss  Valentânq 
decdes  she  likes  Sir  Vane  veiy  mucb,  and  that  if  he 
leaves  them,  and  goes  to  England,  as  he  talks  of  doing, 
she  will  miss  bim  exceedingly:  ^*"- 

Howit^comes  about  that  the  truth  dawns  upon  ber 

wirt"h       !.     '■'^'^.'^^-     "«  adhères  to  hi^  contract 
witb  the  madame,  and  says  nothing  directly.    But  tbere 
arc  other  ways  of  saying  than  in  spoken  words.     In  a 
.    hundred  ways  he  makes  her  see  bis  drift.     The  blue-bell 
çyes  open  very  wide  at  .first,  in  amazed  incredulity.  and 
f.  f°f  of  .consternation.     Marry  !  she  bas  not  begun  to 
thmk  of  it.     She  bas  literally  bad  no  time-she  hfs  seen 
no  one-to  be  looked  at  twice  at  least.    She  is  busy 
thinkmg  of  a  bundred  other  tbings.     Marry  Sir  Vane» 
he  wisbes  it,  bonne  maman  wishes  it~she  bas  found  that 

--^'^  !''^"^-''"^^^^°  ^^^  Valentine  fonnne  ns 

^?  "f^?',^"f  bo°°e  maman  means  to  give  it  to  htfr. 

-  That  she  also  learns-who  is  to  say  how  ?    If  she  marriet 


r%.'s>. 


^^.. 


m 


(L 


JSr£Il£    TO     fVOO." 


■,7  ■' 

969 

him  evcrything  wiU  arrange  itself  as  everybQ^v  wishes  • 
if  sJiç  doçs  not,  there  promises  to  be  worry  a^d  disap^ 
pointment,  and  a  great  deal  of  bitter  feeling.     Marry  Sir  ^ 
Vane  Valcntine  !     Well,  why  not  ?  ^  -  ^ 

Why  not  ?  Miss  Dolores  Valentine^as  been  brought 
up  as  we  know,  in  ail  the  creeds  and  tiiditions  that  most 
obtam  m  French  demoiseIlehoo¥  of  the /uiuU  „oâ/csfe. 
t-irst  and  foremost  among  thèse  is  the  maxim-mademoi- 

sélect.    To  hâve  a  choice  of  her  own,  to  fall  in  love- 

vcould^ythmg  be  in  worse  taste,  be  more  vulgar,  more 

glanggly  oufr,  and  indélicate  ?    Papa  and  mamma  décide 

the  alliance  there  is  an  interview  at  ten,  under  maternai 

TT;     r'     Yl""^  '^^'''^  monsieur  is  supposed  to  sit, 
and  look,  and  long,  and  mademoiselle  to  be  mute  and 
demure,  and  ready  to  accept  the  goods  her  gods  provide. 
If  monsieur  be  tolerably  young,  and  agreeable,  and  gopd 
to  look  upon,so  much  the  better;   if  he  be  old,  sans 
teeth  sans  haïr,  sans  wit,  sans  everything  but  money,  so 
.^ch  the  worse.     But  appeal  there  can  hardly  be  any 
f^fa  parental  authority.     There  is  ahvays  the  cloister  ; 
yes,  ^ufes^Jjat  will  you  ?    We  ail  cannot  hâve  a  vocation 
for  the  nuns  veil,  and  the  couvent  grille.    And  thèse 
very  old  husbands  do  not  live  forever  ! 
^    Shehasnot  thought  much  in  |11  her  bright  summer- 
day  hfe,  she  has  never  had  occasion  for  anything  so 
tiresome  ;  others  hâve  done  it  for  her.    She  knits  her 
f    f  .^^^2^^'"°^''  âhr^uite  frowns  her  pretty  fore- 
head  intè^^les  over  this.    She  eved  writes,  and  lays 
m!  ^^!S"%PPositîonally-before  her  infallible  oracle, 
herZi'^f't^    ^^''  Maddelena  has  been  married 
herself,  and  knows  ail  about  it.    The  answer  cornes. 
But  cer^mly,  my  child,  says  nafre  mire,  it  is  ail  right^ 
tnat,    IfthejagQod  bonne  maman  wighcs^4t,-aad  grm 


'Vr^'¥%j 


/...j^T — »  :  "        q-  --  "-^-^-■■^v  t»««^au  w«rtj^  gréai 

~~71amn^  mterests  are  involved,  and  he  is  worthy  as  you 

9^   fZ:*;^7°y^^'5«°>^^°»'th«««^hyhesitàte.    A  daughter's 

ûrst  duty  la  obédience,  always  obédience  ;  k  bon  Di<a 


V    /,! 


<.ï!s: 


l 


..^' 


"  Ji 


27e 


«  THERE    CAMÉ    A    LADDIE 


'1 


'\ 


blesses  the  "  dutiful  child," — and  so  on  through  four  pages 
of  peaky  writing  and  excellent  French  advice.     Esteenï 
him?    Well,  yes.     But  the  pretty  penciled  brovvs  knit 
doser  than  ever.     How  about  this  lov^,  her  poets  and 
novelists  make  so  much  of,  lay  such  stress  on  ;  positively 
inisist  on  indeed,  as  the  first  and  most  important  ingrédi- 
ent in  the  matrimonial  dish  !     Is  this  kindly,  friendly 
feeling  she.has  for  Sir  Vane,  Iqye  ?     Who  knows  ?    Nqtre 
mère  says  hère,  it  is  not  necessary,  it  may  be  mo§t  fdolish  f  ^^ 
and  uiimaidenly  ;    esteem  and  obédience  are  bcst,  and 
almost  alwajls,  safe.     And  then  what  does  it  signify  ?    ■ 
She  likes  "him  well  enough,  better  than  any  other.    -^incc 
one   must  be  married,  better  marry  a  gentleman  gnc 
knows  and  likes  than  a  stranger.     A  strange  gentlipman     ' 
would  be  embarrassing;  one  would  not  know  whut  tp  ^ 
say  to  hirii  after  marry ing  him  ?     But  oae  could  iliways; 
t^lk  to  Sir  Vane.     And  he  is  never  tireaome,  at  le^'' 
hardïy  ever  !     Since  marriage  or  co'nvents  are  slates  gi^^ls  ' 
are  born  to  choosç  befOMten,  by  naturç,  and  as  sp2||^$/l^y 
upward,  why  make  tr(}lrole  and  vex  ûne's  friendâ  h'  yPJJir  ' 
not  accept  the  inévitable  and  the  bridt;grooni^hoseif?^Rp4 

There  is  her  frieOidjpK|Cpntp^S€^  Paladine,  oiiûj  iiiqe- 
tecn,  the  count  nearlylgry,  quite  fat  an^^  gouty,  and^sj^ 
does  not  sççm  to  mind.  And  la  contesfia,  who  was  alti»- 
gethei*  poor  and  obscure,  and  a  little  nobody  befor<j,hçr 
marriage,* is  a  personage  of  importance  i^ow.  and.  si^ter- 
in-law  to  a  great  monsignore,  Who,  iuhrs  turn^^is  a  great 
ir'i&nà  oi  il  Papd-Re.  She  lives  in  a  big  palazzo,  ,und 
drives  on  the  Corso  every  day,  ahd  sayrs  she  did  not  *)e^ 
gin  to  Irve  until  she  was  la  contessa.  )  .    ^• 

On  the  whole  tine  might  do  wo1"8e,  a  MilordcyValeo*- 
tine,  as  Mihey  call  him  hère,  is  i^A  better  thau  a  Conte 
Guigi  Paladino  of  sixty,  allfaç  and  goût.    Oiié  need 


•?i*;«y  'Ml 


never  be^ashamed^  of  Mnt  rit 


perceive,  is  much  the  same 
is  'Hot  what  ont  wotild  m 
be  worse.    So  the  fkir 


fi 


tfer  vdectstoo,  yotf 


asj||ie.',bridegroom's  own  ;  if 
osrHevre;  but  it  might  easily 


.  :'5?^>%tj 


brpwst  UQbeiu^.  aod  tke^iacujise-  '  '">  * 

■     '  .»    .  •'    \  .;y-   »  >■        "4..   ■■  » 


y  •■ 


**T0  ÈovE  OR  hate:^ 


271 


quent  girlish  mind  is  màde  up.  Since  it  must  be  to 
please  dearest  grandmarama  shé  will  marry  Sir  Vane 
Valenline! 


•/ 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


/ 


h 


"  TO  LOVE  OR  HATE — TO  WIN  OR  LOSE." 


5O  matters  stan.d  on  this  bright  eveïiing,  when 
Miss  Dolores  Valentine  walks  up  and  down 
the  lamp-lit  Sala  in  lustrons  evening  robe, 
and  listens  td  Mrs.  Tinker  and  her  talk  o£  the 
new  will.     No  one  bas  ever  said  to  her  dit^ctly  one 
Word  on  the  subject  matrimonial,  but  it  is  in  ail  tliieir 
mindS,  nevertheleSS,  and  mademoiselle  knows  It, ,  Why 
not  taf:e  the  initiative  herself,  corne  generously  forward, 
and  put  them  out  pf  their  misery.     It  is  through  a  ^ei\se 
of  delicacy  and  consideratii>«   for  her,  no  doubt,  Ihey 
hesitate.     Well^  she  in  t\itn  will  show  thevw  »he  is  not 
lacking  in  nice  perceptiol^.     KM\^  \\\m\  m«*uy,  it  seems  ; 
it  appears  to  be-a  state  of  belug  lio  properly  reguWted 
young  lady  pan  \iéf^  lo  eampe— since  it  tnust  be  dono, 
thcn  it  were  well  'eWere  done  quickly. 
'.      Qf  laie  Sir  Vanè  bas  been  looking  tWbre  tWfii  com- 
mcAîy  black  and  bilious,  and  TEugtîue  Al^i^h  ;  ^s 
*  talkjéd  jiû  moody  stVains  <i(  returnlng  to^llnèland,  and 
rather  cominitting  social  suiqde,  than  (^herwise^onttgf 
^  inairian  bas  beèn  rather  silentand  grave,  ^  lîtcTe  per^ 
'«turbèd,  and  as  il  in  "dtiubt,  and  bas  éontractcd  a  habit  of 
^  regarding  them  bo^.Wi^h  anxious,  half-^osé^eyos.j^'the 
în^ral  atmosphère^  \^  'uijipleasantly  cH^rgda  with  eleç- 

I  I  I       ■      !!■  Il   II  I  ■  A  M  É  ■  ri  I  I  ^    ■■  ^        ^^K 


■■*ll» 


Ht 


'fi 


!f    -  triçity.    Mis^  V^eï|^nc  feèîs  if^incumbenf  ùp«»  her  ii 
^       applf  a  «atcÉi'tnd  tWuch  k  ,#,  and  witll  oçe  l^mnd  cx- 


.  plosioh  clear  àwày  the  vq^rs  l©çev«r. 

^Jè,^,    ..  "M«.^%kjp^^.^8be  says»  pautiog 


\ 


if   • 


«r 


méditative 


'# 


*,  « 


<  ♦ 


■:^i.? 


f. 


F 


afà 


"TO    LOVE    0)R    HATEi 


walk,  "  go  to  grandmamma,  pilease  ;  see  if  the  lawyer 
has  gc«ïe,  and  if  she  will  admit  me." 

Mrs.  Tinker  goes. 

In  ail  things,  great  and  small,  this  young  princess' 
will  is  autocratie.  In  a  minute  or  two  she  is  back. 
Madame  is  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  bids  her 
corne. 

Gathering  up  her  lustrons,  shimmering  train,  Miss 
Valentine  sweeps  away,  bearing  herself  like  the  regaJ 
little  personage  she  is— golden  head  well  erect,  sligh'i 
%mj6:held  straight  as  an  arrow. 

r^  "Bless  you,  my  pretty— my  pretty  !"  murmurs  ador- 
">g  .Mrs.  Tinker,  "  look  where  I  will,  among  contessas, 
and  marchesas,  and  then,  I  see  no  one  fit  to  hold  a  candie 
toyou." 

Swinging  lamps  sparkle  likelre-fliçs  down  the  lofty 
length  of  this  blue  drawing-room.  Madame,  in  black 
silk  and  guipures,  sits  enthroned  in  a  great  blue.  and 
gilded  chair,  with  rather  a  weary,  care-worn  look  ùpon 
her  pale  face.  But  it  changes  to  a  quick,  glad,  welcom- 
ing  light,  as  her  granddaughter  enters. 

"Dressed,  my  dear?"  she  says  ;  "hâve  I  kept  you 
waiting  ?    It  is  still  too  early,  is  it  uot  ?"  , 

For  they  are  due  at  a  party  at  the  big,  grim,  palazzo 
of  the  laughing  contessa— not  one  of  the  great  Paladino 
State  balls.  Miss  Valeùtine  not  being  y  et  properly  "out  " 
—a  rather  small  réception— madame's  weekly  At  Home. 

"Too  early     Yes,"  Dolores  answers,  absently^    She 
draws  up  a  low  seat,  sits  close  to  madame's  side,  folds 
h^r  «Inall  hands  on  théier  lî^dy's  silkeii  lap,  looks  up 
with  two  ^de,  blue,^Krly  unembarrassed  eye%  and  . 
plunges  at  ooce  loto  h^^Kibject. 

"Grandn^m^  mR.  Tinker  says  you  "Save  becn 
màking  a  wiil  ' 

"  Mm  Tiaker  is  a  foolish  ôld  gossip.  But  it  is  tru* 
yk,  Carson  has  just  gone." 


.,  *.^ 


4,        ^ 


TO    WIN   OR   lose:' 


273 


"  Mrs.  Tinker  says  it  is  a  will  in  îny  favor,  leaving 
me  almost  ail  your  money." 

"  Tinker  is  worse  than  a  gossip  ;  she  is  an  old  iooXr 
But  it  is  true  again.     I  hâve." 

One  jeweled  old  hand  rests  lovingly,"^lingerîngly  on 
he  fair  bead.     She  lo9ks  down  with  worshiping  eyes  on 
t,he  fair,  upturned,  sweet  young  face. 

"  My  pretty  Dolores,''  she  says,  "  you  will  be— you  are 
—a  very  great  heiress.  You  are  dowered  like  a  princess, 
do  you  know  it  ?" 

"I  know  that  you  must  be  very  rich,  grandmamma."* 

"  And  it  is  a  very  fine  thing  to  be  very  rich,  my  dear. 
It  brings  this  world  to  your  feet.  Hâve  you  found  that 
out  in  thèse  last  two  years  ?  Ail  our  English  circle  hère 
in  Ronçie— ay,  and  thèse  titled  Italians  also,  talk  of  the 
rich  apd  beautiful  Signorina  Valentine.  And  you  hâve 
known  poverty,^  too,  làmit  on  your  island.  Whiçh  do 
you  think  is  best?" 

She  puts  back  the  straiîds  of  yellpw  hair  with  a  com- 
placent  smife,  and  wait|,  sure  of  the  answer.  But  that 
answer  is  not  quite  to  oM.er  when  it  cornes. 

"  I  was  very  happy  th^e  oà  my  island,  grandmamma 
— ah,  happy  !  happy  !  ^Éverybody  was  good  to  me — so 
good.  And  I  loVed  theq»  ail  f^early.  I  neverwanted  for 
any thing.  I  neyer  thought  of  being  rich — never  wailted 
to  be.  But,  y^s,  I  suppqçe  it  is  a  fine  thing  ;  it  gives  me 
music,  and  books,  and*^pretty  dressas,  and  jewels,  and 
handsome  horses  and  carriages,  and  parties,  and  pleasant 
people,  and  it  makes  the  beggars  shower  one  with  bless- 
ings  ;  but  sontiehow,  I  think*  I  could  be  quite  happy  with-  * 
oUt  so  much  money.  It's  not  everythingi  I  suppose  I 
am  not  ambitious.  At  least,"  seeing  madame's  brow 
darken,  "  it  is  not  worth  ^uarreling  o\i%r,  and.  having 
hard  feelings  about.     Ana    I    am  afrgid>"'  nfervonsîy. 


m 


4" 


there  may  b^  much    hàrd   feeling    about    this  -new 
will."  t 

"  W4mt  do  you  mean,  Dolore?»?^'  a  little  ster^Iy. 


!•• 


.fâ^.' 


-".'.:;  > 


»?   T^-. 


m 


/ 


'7 W'j^*'  4*i 


«74 


''TO    LOVE    OR    HATEy 


**  Dpn't  be  displeased,  grandmamma.  Only  is  it  quite 
fairtoSir  Vane?"      * 

"It  is  quite  fair— it  is  perfectly  fair.  My  ftioney  is 
mine  to  do  as  I  please  with  ;  to  dower  hospitals,  if  I  see 
fit.  I  see  fit  to  give  it  to  my  granddaughter.  What  more 
right  or  natural  than  that?" 

"  Yes,,graHdmamma,  but  still  you  know  Sir  Vane  ex- 
pects      /"  f 

""  My  deaf,"  sarcaktically,  "-Sir  Vane  expected  I  would 
die  some  fifteen  or  more  years  ago  and  leave  him  my 
ducats.  I  believè  he  çonsrd^s  hîmself  a  wronged  man, 
that  I  hâve  not  donc  so.  Perhaps  he  is  no  more  mer- 
cenàrg^d  selfisbtfian  thQ  majority;  perhaps  it  is  nat- 
ural edbugh  he  should  wish  me  out  of  the  way,  and  my 
fortune  his,  but  you  seç  even  Sir  Vane  Valentine  cannot 

'  (juite  hâve  everythyig  to  suit  him.  I  do  not  think  h^  has 
much  to  complain  of,  on  the  whole.  I  do  not  fetter  him 
in  any  way.  If  he  remains  hère  constantly,  it  is  his  own 
wish..  I  think"  he  finds.me  libéral  in  ail  ways.  And 
if  I  hâve  re-rnade  x^y  wiH,  and  lef t  you  my  heiress,  I 
haye  not  forgotten  him,  Something  is  due  him— much 
is  due  him.  I  granp  that,  after  ail  thèse  years  of  waiting 
and  expeçlatioo.  Noblesse  oblige,  my  dear— I  forget  noth- 
ing.  I  am'^5  desirous  as  he  is  to  see  Valentine  restored, 
and  the  old^nahïe,  â  power  in, the  Jand,  once  more.  Your 
iûheritance  would  amply  do  that.  Dolores,  you  plead 
his  cause^plead  against  your  own  interests.  Is  it  pos- 
sible— èhild,  let  me  look  at  you— is  it  possible  vpu  care, 
for  Vane  Valentine?"  7 

Red  as  the  heart  of  a  Juné  rose,  for  a  moment/ grows 
the  uptumed  face,  but  tl»e  blue,  frank  èyes  neither  falter 

nor  fall.  •  / 

"As  my  very good  frîend  and  yours,  grandmamîrta^ 
yes.  "^  I  see  him'  Wety  day,  you  know,"  nâively,  as  thoMgh  ' 
-that— ^ — -• —  -   =- —  ^ 


way-ff  reâsc 


ire  r  «join  know  Balf  IKtf" 


time  how  we  would"  get  6i|  withqjit  him.    Oh.  yes,  fful^rg  ' 
tarissittm^  I  like  hînft  very  much"!'*       %  '     U  .       »  ^^  '  *^^ 


iV 


■  -■■■•♦■     *    ■*  ■  ,  .«■  -  ."'  A'd  i  ^  ■  *>  îla^ik^i^Éte 


*r      -,'-v.  »î^  vt-f  •  -Vif 


:?„"  " 


j. 

,» 


'■4    ' 


r(:>   pv/jv  OR  '  LosE^ 


«75 


.  "  Ah  \"  grandmamma  laughs  a  sarcastic  little  laugh, 
"in  that  way — I  understand.  As  )rou  like  the  family- 
-V  cat  !  Vane  is  a  tame  cat  in  his  way  too.  But  as  a  hus- 
band,  petite,  we  hâve  not  time  to  mince  matters — it 
grows  late.  As  a  husband,  how  does  Sir  Vane  strike 
you?" 

The  blush  fades,  the  little  hands  fold  resignedly— a 
deep  sigh  cornes  from  the  pretty  lips. 

"Oh,  grandmamma,  I  don't  know.  *It  is  very  tire- 
Bome  to  hâve  to  marry.  M§iy  need  one  —at  least  until 
oue  is  quite,  qui  te  old— foûr-and-twenty  say  ?  Grand- 
mamma, l  wish — I  wish,  very  earnestly,  this,  that  you 
would  destroy  this  last  will.  Let  it  be  as  it  was  beforél^ 
let  Sir  Vane  hâve  the  greaj  Valentine  fortune,  and  then 
itwill  not  be  necessaryjor  me  to  marry  him,  oranybody. 
Money  makes  so  mucff  trouble— it  is  so  hard  to  make 
enemies,  and  hitternesSj  an(i  family  quàrrels  just  forits-»" 
sake.  If  I  am  not  an  heiress,  no  one  will  want  to  marry 
me.  I  could  live  with  you,  for  years  and  years  to  fome, 
this  pleasant  iife  of  ouis,  and  then— may  bcr— by  and 
by -"  .  .  *' 

"Well?   and  by  and  by?"  says  grandmamma,  half 
amused,  half  provoked.     "  Oh  !  you  great  baby  t  how  dif- 

,  ferently  you  will  think  when  you  come  to  that  antiquated 
âge— four-§nd-twenty  !  You  wôuld  hardly  thank  me 
then  if  I  took  you  at  your  word  to-night.  fjo,  my  dear,  | 
as  it  is,  so  it  shall  refnàin.  You  are  my  heiress — it  is 
;your.  birthright.  If  you  hâve  a  mind  to  marry  Vane  Val- 
entine, well  and  good  ;  you  might  easily  do  woree,  and 
grcàt  interests  will  then  be  combiaed.  It  is  what  I  would 
decj.dedïy  prefer/  If  yôu  hâve  not  a  raiod,  thea  t^e  i» 
no  more  tq  |»e  said — ^your  inclinatipns  will  »ot  bc  forced, 
and  he  jmu^tafce.what  I  gjiVt  and  bc  cppitent.** 
■     "Birthe^'^'  not  bfî,"  »fty<i  thf  jroifng  liriy,  r^^^nUy, 

'  "thiat  is  the  Worst  ol  i|,,   Aad  h«  will  look  upon  nae  m 
lis  rival  »nd  «nethy,  aéd  bc  btttcr  smâ  angry,  and  ImI 

■«•■*»"■     -*"y  ■       '<,-■    ••**,■*■        ~    ■  ■■ .  ^.- ^      "*  '  î»         -  -  -f     » 

»''-  ,    #■  .■  ...;:..-„-  m    '  f"  -   •' 

*^:    .."■'.      V  -v.lH|.  ;■,  ^>.«*?-    ■■'■■'. -^:'' '•.         •-     X  ^* 


■r 


If 


V",.», 


'  ^^*ri*.  if  *-'*^^^^^e^' 


^--î 


C?*;?- 


n. 


■•:..'^::: 


«76 


r(9    ZOl^È    OR    HATE, 


:;  )•■ 


grandmamma  !    Of  course,  I  îiave  no  mind-'K>  hiih,  pr 
any  oné  else,  but  right  is  right,  and  if  you  wish  it-^^" , 

"Ido  wishit" 

"  And  he  wishes  it — why,  then- "      ; 

"  You  consent,  my  dearest  Dolores,  is  that  your  mean- 
ing'"  ■■■^, 

Mademoiselle  rises  hastily  fô  her  feçt,  with  a  little 
foreign  gesture  of  both  hands,  palms  (iownward,  but  she 
makes  no  answer  in  words,  for  at  t»i  moment  enters 
Sir  Vane,  ready  to  escort  tlîem  to  the  party. 

They  go  in  silence.     Th^iCorso  is  ail  ablaze  with 
lightf  and  thronged  with  pedple  and  carriages,  as  they 
drive  slowly  through.     Overhead  there  is  a  purple  sky. 
golden  stars,  a  shining  half-ring  of  silver  ;  and  Dolores, 
lying  back  in  a  corner,  wrapped  to  the  chin  in  snowy 
cashmere  and  swan's-down,  looks  up  at  it,  and  thinks  of 
the    moonlight   nights    long  ago.      Bay  Chalette,   one 
great  sheat^f  poîished  silver;  the  black  crags  of  Isl& 
Perdrix,  tipped  with  sha|ts  of  radiance  ;  the  little  vvhite 
cottages,  looking  like  a  ininiature  ivory  temple.     Where 
are  they  ail— they  who  dwell  together  on  lonely  Isle  Per- 
'rix,  now?,    Old  Tim  is  there  still  in  his  light-house; 
Ma'artï  Weesy  dwelis  alone  in  her  cottage;  Johnny  is 
"among  those  who  go  down  to  the  "grcat   waters  "  in 
ships;  and  René  is— sôraewhere— 'Studying  his  belovcd 
art.   h  Ib  more  than  a  year  ago  since  she  heiird  f rom  hini. 
He  too  was  travelingj  and  that  reminds  Jier,  s^je  has 
nevcr  answered  that  last  letter.     Mère  Mad,delena  is  sti,il 
at  Villa  des  Anges,  and  Di*   Macdonald— ah  !  Dr.  JVTac. 
dooald's  name*  is  writtcn  in  marble,  and  he  das  gone  to- 
bea citizen  of  tÉ*t  City  mbam  œaker  and  buiider  is  God. 
The  greai.  gnm  stone  froat  of  \Ja&  tail  paiazzo  is  ali  fl 
lutter  of  ii^iit  ;  music  com»  to  them  as  they  enter.     A 
4iHMag  ycMTBg  office-,  in  tte  gtÉaermg  mnifiMm  of  the 
Gtrardia    '^<vbi^'',   «^-^fy»»';  t-Hf^r   jn  thr  Trfitrgshait^aad  do=^^ 


Tï«cs  himseif  iniii  tmpresmment  to  die  Mr.  Slgnorina  In 
^iese  f  rosi  thsi  moines.     He  is  a  haodsoœe  lad,  aad  4. 


.î  r-f 


"«.  ^^^'••v  i"j<^  ■?• 


TO    }VIN    OR    LOS£." 


Il  m 


277' 


yj'-'^nt,  a  cousin  of  the  Paîadini,  and  deeply,  hoDclesslv 

ÎVlove  with  Meess  Valentine.     A  dim  s^  ciTS 

s^odawnson  Miss  Vale^^inc's  m>d  this  evening  bu 

?4    en  of'r'h  '  ^'  ^f  '  pathetically  innocent  for 
a  hteen,  of  the  phases  and  workinga  of  the  grande /,as. ' 


\J'^<^'S;'^'"^'^^^^^r'.she  says,  looking  over  her 
shoulder^^l,,  as,  pern^ission  granted,  she  flifs  aw^by 

For  Sir  Vane-he  is  distinctly  cross.     He  takes  hU 
stand  near  madame's  chair,  with  Lded  arms  and  roody 
brew  looking  darker  and  thinner,  and.  older  than^sual 
and  frowning  rather  on  the  gay  company  before  h"m  ^^ 

c  ovred  7v  ^'^  ^'^^1'"^  ''''  '^^  golde/head  peaS: 
Noble  r  A^'f'"'''^  kinswoman,  with  her  glitt^ering 
Noble  Guard  by  her  side.  Is  this  t<rbe  the  end?  The 
young  fellow  will  be  a  marche^e  one Wy  ;  he  i^t  t  fi.e!  ^ 
depiroTtLV'  bandsome,;ànd  he  Is' in  thV  de^'t 
.depihs  of  the  sovereign  passion.  U  is'|)atent  iiThis 
liquid  Itahan  eyes  for  ail  the  worW  to  read  Is  this  to 
be  the  end  ?  And  Carson  was  at  the  house  to-d^^and  a 
new  wui  de-a  fipal  one  this  time,  no  doubt  and 

the  Valentine  fortune  has  been  left  irreiocably  to  tWs 
amber-ha,red  girl.  After  ail  his  wasted  years,\  s  ost 
youth,  h.s  hopes,  is  this  to  be  the  end  ? 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  you,  my  ^ood 

to  be,  by  the  dark  look  his  face  wearL  *        . 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter^vSthVy  hcalth.  i{  tfaat 
1.  what  you  mean."  he  answers,  shortlytnough  ^     ^* 

fjf.-id  disease,  I  take  it."^  **  * . 

an  hî*'"''"  »t  foilov/,"  still  curtly,  "that  I  muitf  beill-at    * 
ail  bfc^sel  do  net  choose  fo  ra||r  jn  this  dinr  ' 


~SîFV55ëTi5s  often^^een   irrita6le~8o  distinctly  aa 

Lu^or?"   k'°".     ^"^^*^^  ''  ^°  exccptionIlIy7o^' 
humor  herself,  and  g,«at  allowànce  is  to  be  made  f^T  Sir 


■fi 


m  **         ■■vr.Jir-fïfeSf^iîX*:^ 


•r'* 


;.^^ 


«78 

Vane.  she 


TO    LOVE    Or\haTE. 


aware.  "  If  y  ou  do  no^  choose  to  lalk,  that 
is  another  thing,"  she  says,  co6l  ly  ;  "  when  you  do  I  hâve 
a  Word  or  tWo  to  say  to  you,  you  may  like  to  hear." 

"Indeédif'coldly;  "anything  pleasairf  will  be  rather 
a  welcome  èhange.     My  letlers  from  home  to-day  were 
ail  most  confoundedly  unplciisant.     Everything  is  going 
^fopg,  eveml^ing  from  the  manor  to  the  cottages  tum- 
bhng  to  pièces.     I  must  go  over,  Dorothy  says,  if  any- 
thing  isto  be  donc.     I  can  go,  of  course,  although  I  fail 
to  see  of  what  particular  benefit  my  going  c^n  be.     I 
feel  rather  (lipped,  I  iTiust  confess,  in  the  face^of  ail  this. 
*    And  that  dc^es  not  add  to  one's  comfort."     He  motions 
to  where  D(ilores,  still  on  the  arm  of  the  Noble  Guard,  is 
Ivaltzing  ov^r  the  waxed  floor,  to  the  music  of  'Gourond. 
."  It  is  of  jthat  I  would  speak.     Comè doser,  my  good 
Vane,  we  cari  talk  hère  as  securely  as  at  home.     You  saw 
Mr.  Carson  at  the  house  to-day, "i  infer?" 

"Yes,"curtly.  /°  \ 

"I  hâve  ml^de  a  will— a  new  will— my  final  dteposi-- 
tion  this  timè.     The  bulk  of  my  fortune  is  left  to  my 
granddauê^hte^»— riàturally."         v^  *'' 

"  Naturally,"  |je  repeats,  with  a  half  sneer,  settirig 
his  teeth  belilnifi  bis  mustache,  and  biting  bajï'  a^illéh 
oath.  1  .\  \ 

"Dolores  d^scoyered,  artd,.st'range  to  sày,  objected. 
She  wished^^i^  \q  hâve  the  largèr  sharc.  She  considered 
V-  it  due  to  ydu.     ghe  pleaded  your  cause  moSt  urgeritly." 

"  I  am  infinitiely  obliged  to  my  fair  cQUsin-^the  future 
Marchesa  Salvini" 

"She  is  not  your  cvmsin— at  least,  the  cousinship  is 
so  remote  that  i|t  need  not  count.  I  object  to  the  mar- 
riage  of  cousins.  An^  there  is  a  question  of  marriage 
hère,  Vane.  We  spoke  of  it,  ^  and  I.  I  told  her  I 
Wished  it,  you  wi^hed  it,  and^— " 


.C 


^       » 


Wdl?"  ..  bMthiecol^v 


»;     "Cpnsents.     Dolores  will  marry  you,  my  good  Vane." 
There  is  silence.    He  «tapds  erect,  and  for  a  n^omcat 


..■^Jr".     ■ -^ 


"'*  »  ;-Éiv 


that  ;^^ 
hâve 


OS1--  -^ 

my 


c 


M>~- 


r*"^- 


«79 

draws  his  breath  in  hard.  It  is  a  inom.ent  before  he  can 
juite  realize  what  he  hears.  Marry  him  !  Then  that  tall 
fellow  in  black  and  goJW  is  no  favored  lover  after  ail. 
1^1^?''?^  ^T  with  kindlipg  eyes,  triumphant  eyes. 
At  last  !  The  fortune  is  secured  !  And  she  is  iwettv-. 
vçry  pretty-yes,  beautiful-a  bride  th  be  proud  of  » 
And  she  is  dowered  like  a  grand-duchess  !    Only  H  mo-  *^ 

ment  ago  ail  seemed  lost-and  now Lamps,  flowers. 

waltzes,  music,  surge  around  him  as  things  do  in  a 
dream.     «  You  say  nothing,"  madame  says,  suspiciously,       ' 
and  in  some  anger.     "  Am  I  to  understand " 

"Thatamanmaybedazed,stunned,speechless,from 
shqer  good  fortitne-yes.     There  are  shocks  and  shocks. 
my  dear  aunt.    You  hâve  just  giveii  me  one.     I  wâs  in   ^ 
despaH—I  may  tell  you  noxv-one  moment  ago.    I  meant     • 
to  throw  up  everything  tt)-hiorrovv,  to  go  back  to  Eng- 
land,  and  rèturn  hcre  no  more.     I  thought  she  cared  for       . 

that  fellow.     A,nd  now-^to  kiiow  this ;•'• 

\  "  ^/^  yo"  «»ean  tofe,"  demands  madame,  an^  looks      ', 
^%|)athiniearnestlj,;t^at  you  care  for  the  child  apart 
Jrom  her  fortune— that  you- love  her  in  short  ?" 
'     "  You  need  hardly  ask  that  questlion,  I  think,"  h^^^h^^ 
^wers,  calmly.     "Could^any  man  see  her,  in'her  beauty  ) 
and  sweetiiess,  as  I  4o  day  aher  day,  and  «^/  love  lier? 
iTubt"  compliment  our  iovely  Colores    t^  uic 

"  Pardon     I  thought-^I  meap-well,  ï  am  very  glad.    [ 
Yes,  she  is  lovely  ehough  to  inspiré  love  in  any  one. 
There  is  *  great  dispaliy  of  years,"  with  Â  sigrt  ;  "  but  ■ 
ihat  must  be  overlooked.    You  wiil  b.ç  good  to  her 
Vane?— my  poorlittletenderone!"    ,         ;  ' 

And  Sir  Vane  protests,' aàd  takes  a  seat  by  fier  ^ide, 
"àud  while  the  musLc^wells  arourid  chem,  and  tnedancers 


dance;  and  th 


plan,  and  talk  o 
the  hcuse  of  Vnlt, 


'nt4L'tÙ.A 


;juure,«rn4  thp  restored  fortunes  of 


\-i^ 


t 


■3- 


?  s-;. 


E»? 


S*" 


-AN 


'■'-)  ^      '-  ^T  ■■•■*      _' 


:*■        '■■^., 


a8o  ''NOTHJNG    COMES    AMISS; 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

"NOTHING  CQMES  ÀMISS,  SO  MONEY  COMES  WITHAL." 

HERE  is  a  picnic,  three  days  after,  and  they  go 
to  the  Villa  Ludovisi.  It  is  tovely.  picnic 
iïl  weather,  and  the  gay  little  contessa  is;  never 
happy  but  when  in  the  midst  of  something 
of  the  sort.  To-day  they  ^re  a  parfi  cam — Sir  Vane, 
madame,  la  contessa,  and  Dolores.  And  to-day  Sir  Vane 
détermines  to  put  his  fate  to  the  touch — to  speak  to  Do- 
is definitely.  Not  that  there  is  any  real  need  of  such 
Oceeding,  but  Sir  Vane  is  not  a  Frenchman,  and  be- 
fes  in  doing  this  sort  of  thing  properly  and  in  order, 
in  English  fashion.  They  drive  through  the  sunny 
streets,  where  hooded  capuchins,  and  picturesque  artists, 
and  flower-girls,  and  fruit-sellers,  and  f  riars»  of  orders 
gray,  and  cavalcades  with  jingling  bcUs,  and  brown  beg- 
gars,  lie  in  the  sun,  and  the  sharp  chirp  of  the  cicala 
cracks  through  the  green  gloom,  and  fiowers,  and  orange 
trees,  and  roses,  and  Ronian  violets,  and  Victor  Eman- 
uel's  soldiers  afe  everywhere.  Overhead,  thcre  is  a  hot, 
hot  sun,  but  with  it  there  is  a  breeze,  an  air  like  velvet, 
the  streets  are  a  blaze  of  light,  and  life,  aiid  color.  It  is 
bot  the  old  picturesque,  papal  picture,  of  cardinal's  car- 
nages-— //  Fapa-Re,  benign  and  white-robed,  in  their 
midst— but  aglowing  vista  of  moving  life  and  color  still. 
They  ascend  to  the  heights  among  ruins,  and  the  red 
petticoats  of  conda/tna  into  the  dense  green  gloonji  of 
olive  and  ilex  woods,  whère  luncheon  has  been  ordered, 
and  waits  them.  Therô  is  hard  brown  bread,  and  crisp, 
silvery  lettuce,  and  figs  that  are  like  globes  of  gold,  and 
ice-cold  winç.     Ànd  after  dinner,  as  they  stand  under 


the  Iliade  of  the  ilex  for  a  moment  alone,  Sir  Vane  fînds 
his  opportunity,  and  speaks. 


X 


-.^A.'R''  M. 


1  ■!«';'  ■«-*    w;*(W 


^'**^?^'"'^  '  ?:-"^*'^^ 


SO    MONEY    COMES     WITHAL."*         a8i 

She  is  looking  very  fair,  jjnd  veryyoung-^too  younij 
the  man  of  îorty  beside  her  thinks-impatient  of  those 
forty  years.  She  is  dres^d^  in  white,  crlsp,  gauzy,  silky, 
as  spotless  as  her  owÉ^aiden  heart.  The  amber  hair 
fajls  long  and  loose  o^lflier  shouldcrs  in  girlish  fashion, 
tied  backUvith  a  knot  oî  pale  plnk  ribbon.  Her  cbeeks 
are  llushed  with  the  heat,  to  the  samerose  pink  glow. 
That  glow  deepens  to  i^arlet  as  she  stands,  with  whitè 
drooping  lids,  and  listens., 

Shf  wishes  he  would  not— she  shrinks  from  what  hi 
says.     His    wbrds  of  love  and  passion   sound  forced.. 
cold  ;  they  repel  her.     No  answering  sympathy  awakes 
within  her-she  shrinks  as  she  hears.     Was  it  necessary 
to  say  this?    Grandmamma  has  told  him.     Love?  no 
she  feels  none  of  it-she  does  not  believe  he  does  either* 
She  IS  relieved  when  he  is  silent,  and  looks  about  her! 
half  inclrned  to  run  away.   But  he  has  caught  one  of  her 
hands,  and  so  holds  her.     «  Dear  little  hand,"  he  says. 
dasping  it  between  both  his  own,  «when  is  it  to  be  mine 
Dolores  ?"  ' 

"Çrandmamma  will  arrange  ail  that,"  answered  ma- 
demoiselle, and  hastily  withdraws-it  ;  "  it  is  a  matter  in 
which  I  désire  to  hâve  no  choice.  I  should  like  it  to  be 
as  far  off  as  possible " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  cruel— the  fîrst  unkind  word  you  hâve 
spokQn  to-day." 

"  Otherwise,"  quite  calmly,  ignoring  the  interriiption. 

I  ani  prcpared  to  obey.     And,  meantime,  I  should  be 

glad,  Sir  Vane,  if  you  will  not  speak  of  this  again     It  is 

not  needed,  and—I  find  it  embarrassing."    There  is  no 

necessity  to  say  so  ;  her  deeply  flushed  cheeks^  s^eak  for 

.^^'l  ^^°^.  P^°"^^?  ^^^^  alacrity.    He  is  not  at  att 


\  »  ..  — ..  ~.»v^m.^.     xiçj  4a  vm\,  at  an 

-«oriy^^o  be  ftd  of  llie  bore  of  WQgîngr  ^r  wîsh  renders 

it  easy  to  make  a  merit  of  his  own  désire.    He  lights  a 

philosophie  cigar,  and  strolls  oflf  to  enjoy  it,  as  la  eon- 

tessa  cornes  up  with  madame.  ^ 


^<^ 


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Sdenœs 
Corporation 


23  WfST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.  Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4S03 


•-^ 


'"t   w'*'' 


4i^ 


'g 


1, 1 


^^ 


382 


''NOTHING    COMES    AMISS, 


iore.  fînds  herself  alone  ;  the  others  hâve  paused  l^A 
n..re  a  rum  farther  up.    Where  she  stands  i^justhS 

now  and  drooping,  after  the  noontide  glare     iTÔccuÏ 
ionT  SDikT  ^,„°T  "'  '"  ^'^"■"'ancç^'she  breaks  off  some 

"  iseen  tmnks.     She  stands  on  the  stones,  and  essav<;  fn 
wme  the  rose^  round  the  base  of  the  s4tue  Xrher 

tX\Z.       T-      ^  '"^'  '"  Srasp  something,  fails  in 
th,s  too,  and  .s  toppling  ingloriousiy  backwird  whén 

ip~esTe?°\^P""«^  '™-"  '"«  S--'  -"  w1«ron: 
leap  catches  her  m  his  arms.    She  drops  into  them  with 

^"1;^,r'T  "'  "?  •"■  "'^"  "^""'^  Precipitate  y  blk 
»,.^  j"^!^'"'  **  '■«^<="«'-.  'fying  to  uncover   but 

at  the  Sound  of  his  voioe,  «-ith  a  second  look  .n  hTs  face 
there  .s  a  quick  little  scream  of  ecstasy  ;  two  mi?k!whS    ' 
ams  are  aung  round  his  neck.  and  hold  him  t^ht  Sht 
and^a  vo.ce  brin,f„,  and  running  over  with  S'n^^ï:; 

"René!"  .        % 

"René  !  René  !  René  !"  cries  this.ecstatic  voice  «don'f 

~li î i  iR rct  f ««îî         u .    ^^  DianKiy,     Intense  surprise  Is" 


««•» 


.  I»tt..^p.&â4à^,  -jjll^^^^l^ 


t*^ 


SO    M  ONE  Y    COMES     WITHALr         28  J 

/'Snowball,   of    course.      Oh!    my   dearest,    dearelt 
René  !   how  good   it   seems  to  see  you  after  ail   thèse 
years  once  more  !"     She  loosens  her  arms  by  this  titne 
and  looks  at  him  again.     He  stands,  half  laughing.  half 
em^arrassed,   whoUy  glad,  but   not  gl  d    in   the  same 
efifusive  way.     And   with   that  second  look,   it  davvns 
upon.this  impulsive  young' person   that  she  ha&  been 
embracing  a  René  very  différent  iq,appearance  from  the 
Renc  of  old.     This  is  a  tall  young  gentleman,  and,  in  a 
dark  way,  an  exceedingly  good-looking  one.     And  he 
wears  a  mustache.     And  he  is  a  man  !     And  ail  ihe  bloqd 
of  ail  the  Valentines  rises  up,  in  deepest  contrition  and 
jîonfusion,  in  the  fair,  pearl-like  face. 

It  is  René,  and  not  René.  And  he  is  laughing  at  her 
-that  is  to  say,  there  is  a  smile  in  his  dark  eyes,  and  just 
lurkmg  at  the  corners  of  that  new  mustache,  though  he 
is  evidently  making  a  decorous  effort  to  efface  it  What 
would  grandmamma,  and  oh  !  what  would  Sir  Vane  sav 
if  he  had  seen  !  Red  as  a  rose  is  she-the  sweetest,  the 
prettiest.  the  most  charming  picture  of  confusion-and 
René  longs  to  take  her  in  his  arms  this  time  and  return 
the  hug  with  compound  interest.  Only  he  does  not 
you   understand.     On   thp  contrary,   he  staq^ls,   hat   iû 

\Htxn  ^'  ^^°"^^  ^^  """"^^  °^''^'"  ^"""^  "^^^^  °^ 

"It  is  Snowball!"  he  says  ;  «and  to  think  that  for 
ten  full  minutes  I  hâve  been  watching  your  efforts  to 
decorate  that  statue,  and  never  knew  you.  How  vou 
hâve  changed  !"  '  ^ 

"  Not  half  so  much  as  you,  I  think.  I  haven't  erown 
a  mustache.  But  you  always  were  rather  stupid  about 
recognizing  j-qur  old  friends,  René." 

He  laughs  outright-her  tone  is  so  exactly  the  dis- 
ggtiouj^^toneofwiM  Snowball  7fillon.„" 


tfi 


never  given   up  your  habit  of  vitupeVatTon  ?"  hTIsk^ 

or  is  it  only  me  you  favor  with  it  ?    I  am  glad  if  you 

kcep  anything  exclusively  for  me-even  your  trick  of 


*ïî#É<-*^^--* 


^^L^Si^iiÈ^L^à-ih^  l't^.tii,  i 


'^^^i'-' 


-     !     ■ 
«84  ^'NOTHING  'cbUES    AMISS, 


X 


^^:^'^  "^  '^^'-  '^''^  ^"-^^">  ^ow  g,ad  I 
"0-h-h!  it  has  taken  you  çome  time  to  fmd  it  ont 

a  week  sometimes  to  make  it  up.     I  knew  I  was  ^Vad  to 
see  you  at  first  sight"  gJad  to 

_      "You  don't  quite  sound  so,"  still  laughinff  •  <^  ma  foif 

how  tall  you  are^and  how "  -^'        ^^• 

"  Well,"  Mugeriously,  "  what  V- 

«;f  J/""^"^'     ^""^  ""^  "'>^  outspokenness.     We  never 
stood  on  cereiaiiMr  with  eirh  r^tû^r-  "t-ver 

ber."  ^^  i  ^°"   -''^y  remem- 

nlimi?'^^*^^";'     ^v  ^"^  '°'"y  ^  ^^"°°t  return  the  com- 
^kJ^^''    ^^'"'-''-'^  "-  ^--   "P   at  a"îl 

.J'^V"  '""Shing  once  more.  "Ah!  how  sorrv  I 
am  to  hear  that     I  „ever  regretted  being  ugjy  beZre 

;  ^"°  -^  *°»  doing  most  handsomely,  I  ass,j^,ou  " 
Are  you?    Al  sculpture,  I  suppose.    Dj»k„o„ 

ma„°y  of  t"he™  "'a  °h  "."'P'""  -d  artists.,  Wstes TÔ 
many  of  them.  And  they  are  ail  alike-smoke  erimv 
p.pes^wear  blouses,  and  never  comb  their'  hair  •■     ^    ^ 

my  hfar  7  H^'^^'^-  """""  """  ^fl"-''"'^'-  "^  "■>  i"'^''  "f 

"  A^^     ,  ^       "°"=  '°  ™'"'''  '"y  dear  Snowball." 
I  1,       ?    Johnny,"    says   Miss  Valontine,    "where    is 
Johnny?    Ah    how  homesick  I  hâve  bcen'mary  a  time 

nim.    Does  he  still  go  to  sça  ?" 

"  Still  goes  to  sea-^happy  Johnny  !    Gone  for  a  thre^ 

c.le  ,t  to  your  conscence-if  you  hâve  any-to  like 
Johnny  so  much  better  than  me.    He  never  liked  j^» 

n..„i'°'"  ''"';''«  M"  cries  Miss  Valentine,  wir-nlv.  aod 
^^^^"^f'-^S^S^  tBe  best^oÛnîver^d^ 
«ybody  m  your  -life-well,  perhaps,  except  MaC 


/, 


:^ii:^^ki&...M^    Ji-_ 


r 


VI   * 


Tî.- 


^à    MONEY    COAfES     WITHAL»         285 
Weésy,.when  she  was  cooking  something  particularly 

"How  unjust,"  says  René,  "how  extremely  ùniust 
I  may  hâve  concealed  my  feelings,  but  I  alvvays  had-I 
hâve  at  this  moment,"  lifting  two  dark,  laagh^nff,  yet 
earnest  eyes,  "the  very  friendliest  regard  for  you  " 

"  Your  power  of  concealment  then,  past  and  présent, 
do  you  infinité  crédit,  monsieur.  I  rejoice  to  be  able  to 
congratulate  you  on  anything.  What  are  you  doing  in 
Rome?'  ^  "^^       .^Y  ^ 

«  What  do  aH  who  aspire  to  carve  their  namês /mong 
tùe  immortals  in  sculpture  do  in  Rome?" 

"Among  the  immortals  !  Let  me  congratulate  you 
once  more  ;  this  time  on  your  modesty.  Since  ladien  are 
jou  hère  ?"  •'  w  ^ 

"  Since  four  months  ago." 

"  Did  you  kno^  /  was  hère  ?" 

"Mydear  Snowball,  there  are  some  fortune-favored 
people,  who  can  rio  more  hide  themselves  than  the  sun 
up  yonder.  You  are  of  thèse  elect.  Even  to  my  obscure 
workshop  the  famé  of  thfefair,  the  peerless,  the  priceless 
bignonna  Inglese  has  been  wafted." 
,  "  How  priceless,  pltase  ?"     ' 

"  Need  you  ask  ?    Need  the  heiress  of  the  great  Be- 
gum "  ,  . 

She  stops  him  with  a  motion,  and  a  rising  flush. 

And,  knowing  I  was  hère,  you  never  came,  never  cared 

to  see  me  ail  this  time  !     Was  I  not  right  when  I  said 

you  were  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  your  own  statues  ? 

You^  never  cared  lor  anybody,  my  friend  René,  in  your 

"But,  Snowball,  think.    You  are-what  you  are  ;  I   •' 
am  René  Macdonald,  obscure  and  unknown  to  fanle,  with   - 
the  poverty  of  the  proverbial  church  mouse,  and^ " 


^' AndHie  pnde  of  Luciferr    Yës,  I  uri  Jerstan^    ÀhT 
they  hâve  missed  me  ;  hère  is  grandmamma." 

^'**°^'"*™""a  ascends  the  slope,  and  exclaims  some- 


ilJîi»«i«f,3  '    ^       tWtM 


286 


prif/NG    ÇOMES    AMISS, 


whatat  t-^esight  of  her  missing  granddaughter,  stand- 
mg  quietly  hère,  m  decp  con Verse  with  a  «  rank  "  stranger 
arm  ^  T  '^""^f  ^^^ward,  and  offers  her  strong  young 
arm        See,  grandmamriiar!  an  old  f riend-the  oldest  of 

dt^r'xhis'rhe.^^^  '^^^'  "^^  ^^^^^  ^^  ^-^  ^- 
"I  know  M.  René  Macdonald  very  well,"  says  ma- 
dame, smiling.and  holding  out  her  hand.  «  I  hâve  heard 
vèlrT^f.v  ?f^^'"«Se  ten  times  a  dayfor  the  last  three 
years.     I  think  I  may  claim  him  as  an  acquaintance  of 

blfor^-      '^^''^'-     ^  ^"^  ^^'^°^^  ^ert^in  I  ^avé  met  him 

"Very  likely,  madame.    I  hâve  been  in  Rome  several 
niontns. 

,  "  ^?f  '"  Rome-at  a  certain  school  fête,  at  a  certain 
quamt  Ijttle  Canadian  town.  A  young  person  we  both 
knew  played  the  rôle  of  Marie  Stuart,  and  two  young 
gentlemen,  sittmg  near  a  certain  elderly  lady,  very  fuUy 
and  frecly  discussed  the  actress."  ^       ^^       y  "^^^7 

"Pardon,"  René  says,  laiighing;  «Irecollect.     Ma- 

anHo  ::iL""'''"\'^"  ^"'  ^^"^^^  ^^"î^-^-  -  1-g 

"Grandmamma  ncvcr  forgets  a  face  or  a  name,"  says 

^^Z  t1'"?^'  T'""  P''°"^'>^  '  "  '^^  ''  ^'^'^^  ^ith  second 
sight,  I  thmk.  J)ear  me  !  how  very,  very  long  ago  that 
day  seems  now.-'  •>>      j'        ^    ^^  «."at 

"Life^has  dragged  so  vvearily,  you  see,  monsieui," 
says  madame,  pinching  one  rosy  car,  "with  this  young 
lady  since  she  has  been  toVn  frora  her  island  friends 
Three  years  appear  like  a  little  forever,  do  you  hear  ? 
But  /know  to  my  cost,  that,  'thougli  lost  to  sight  to 
memory  dear,' Johnny.  René,  Inno,  Wl^y,  notre  mère^ 
the  changes  hâve  been  rung  on  those  b^oved.names 
every  day,  and  many  times  a  day,  since." 

J^And  ma^e  has  been  bored  to  extinctinn  hy  ..5 


.n  ,,  --   —  ' ^'w.vu  i.yj  cAnnunan  py  lis 


mé^iy- 


>*"• 


^^1 


^"ih,rx- 


4/k,     -   *'  Hi^>V  ê^^F^^^^ 


-^ 


^  SO    MONEY   COMES    WXTJIAL.»        287 

will  naturally  préjudice  you  against  us  in  thc  près- 

"Itwill  not  be  difficult  to  make  you  an  exception, 
young  sir  grandmarama  says,  graciously.  She  is  in 
high  good-humor  witii  herself,  her  heiress,  and  ail  the 
world  to-day.     "  Hère  dôme  Sir  Vane  and  la  contessa." 

They  corne  up,  surprised  in  their  turn,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment la  contessa  has^recognized  an  aèquaintance.     ''// 
Stgnore  Scultore r  she%xc\^\ms.     "  My^ear  Dolo,  I  told 
you  I  was  having  a  bust  of  myself  done,  did  I  not  ?    No  ' 
1  hen  I  am.     I  go  to  the  signore's  studio  every  day     You 
,    must  corne  with  me  to-morrow  and  see  it.     The  siffnore 
,     does  the  most  eXquisite  things,  I  assuré  you  " 
\    _    Sir  Vane,  standing  a  little  apart,  cames  forward  air 
this  moment,  and  there  is  a  présentation.     René  bov^" 
rather  stiffly,  and  in  a  moment    recognizes  the  dark. 
nameless  stranger  whom  he,  and  Snowball,  and  Johnnv 
rowed  over  f rom  St.  Gildas  that  evening  years  ago 

Soyau  are  the  man,"  thfnks  René,  eying  him  with 
but  half-hidden  disdain  ;  "  and  you  came  as  aly  " 
They  meet  there,  on  the  mountain  side,  and  the  Val-' 

L  T^T  ^M*'''"'^j  '^'''''^^  '^^  ^^^^^y  «'^^^^t  dusk.  René 
^.  Macdonald  stands  and  watches  them  out  of  sight  pleas- 
ure  pain,  he  hardly  knows  which,  the  stronger  feeling 
l^f'Z  r: .''"  'K  half-forgotten  em^içn,  awakened 
for  the  first  time  on  that  night  madame  has  recalled.  stir- 
nng  its  nearly  extinct  embers  into  a  glow  once  more. 
How  lovely  she  has  grown-but  was  she  not  always 
lovely  ?  He  used  not  to  see  it  in  those  old  days,  blind 
mole  that  he  was.  And  3he  has  not  cha„ged4t  is  he 
old  Snowball  with  the  life  and  sparkle,  Is  of  yore,  in 
those  starry  blue  eyes,  with  sweetness,  and  truth,and 
repartee  still  on  her  lips.     Her  words  are  not  very  sweet 

— iiuie^aciatty  ^avoTff  the  flatness^of  Itfc's  nectar.     WKo™" 
would  not  prefer  lemonade  to  eau  sucrée?    Underneath 
it  ail,  sparkle,  and  malice,  and  retort,  he  has  seen  ^oy-- 


,i 


'-.*"!• 

;■!• 


il 


'Si^if] 


'^^ 


«,»^^- 


V 


283  ''NOTHING    COMES    AMÏSS, 

deepest,   fiillest  joy  at  meetinjr   him.      Hei^  arms  hâve 
clasped  and  held  him,  her  first  words  hâve  been  words  of 
gladdcst  grccting.     Dear,  dear,  dearest  little  Snowball  ! 
unspoiled  by  flattery,  by  vvealth,  by'  adulations,  by  the 
vvorld.     What  a  prizc  she  will  be  for  the  maa  who  wins 
her!     And  that  reminds  him— he  dislikes  and  distrusts 
Sir  Vane  Valentine.     To' corne  to  the  island,  to  accept 
i^  hospitality,  as  a  spy  !    A  chill  feeling  of  repulsion 
fiUs  him.     Will  they— dare  they  think  of  giving  Snow- 
ball, fresh,  bright,  pure,  a  child  in  heart,  to  him  9    Fàugh  ! 
the  thought  sickens  him.     He  has  heard  of  this  Miloi'do 
Valentine,  that  he  is  a  sc^ew  in  money  matters,  a  man 
not  liked  by  men,  a  toad  hunter,  a  tame  tabby.     lie  is 
old,  too,  fully  twenty  years  her  senior.     Oh  !  it  would  bç 
monstrous.     Surely  Snowball  woyld  never  consent.     In 
a  very  méditative  m^od,  indeed,  //  Signore  Scultore  be- 
takes  himself  to  his  lodgings  and  his  atelier.     It  is  \n. 
appartamento  not  far  from  the  grand  Palazzo  Paladino,  a 
studio  on  the  ground   floor,  and  two  or  three  privatè 
rooms  al  seconda.     He  can  see  the  long  rows  of  Windows 
of  the  Palazzetto,  sparkling  like  grcat  dïamonds,  hear  its 
sonorously  sweet  music  svvelling  in  the  soft  night  air. 
La  contessa  gives  one  of  her  balls  to-night.    He  descends 
'  to  his  studio,  deserted  now  by  the  workmen,  lowers  a 
swinging  braçs  lamp,   uncovers  a  marble   figure,  and 
looks  at  it. 

.It  is  a  girl,  standing  on  a  windy  headland,  her  hair 
blown  back,  her  face  bent  eagerly  forward,  one  hand 
shading  her  eyes,  gazing  over  the  sea.  The  face  is  full 
of  impatient  expectation,  every  curA^e  instinct  with  grâce 
—the  graçe  of  youthful  strength  and  symmetry  in  repose. 
An  Italian  girl  has  been  his  model  for  the  figure,  the 
arms,  the  pose  of  the  head— the  face  has  been  wrought 
from  the  model  of  a  face  in  his  niind.  IIow  often'  hc 
il^^  seen  Snowbair  stand  ou  Point  Lookout,  with  the 


*^ 


sunsetliglits  în  lier  face,  her  Haxen  hair  streaming  ijjce 
a  yellow  banner  in  the  gale,  waiting  for  Johnny  and  iho 


vr;/:^*'?. 


.      SO    M  ONE  Y    COMES    VVITl^L»         289 

Boule-de-neige  to  corne  in.  H«  stands,  hatfjsmiling,  and 
'  gazes  long,  then,  with  an  impatient  sigh,  recovers  it  and 
goes  over  to  one  of  tlie  Windows.  He  leans  with  folded 
arms  on  thc  gray  stone,  and  gazes  thoughtfuUy  and  a 
littie  troubled,  at  the  flashing  lights  of  the  Palazetto. 
How  wildly  sweet  those  Strauss  waltzes  peal  !  Many 
carnages  flash  by  and  draw  up  in  lipe.  Is  the  Valentine 
équipage  among  them,  hç  wonders;  is  she  entérina 
those  -  marble  halls  "  at  this  moment,  on  the  arm  of  thé 
odious  milordo. 

Next  day,  what  he  has  hoped  for,  but  hardly  dared 
expect,  cornes  to   pass.     When   la  contessa  arrives  io 
sit  for  the  bust,  Miss  Valentine  is  with  her.     But— his 
workmen  around  him,  the  double  doors  of  his  studio 
open  to  the  world,  the  sculptor  at  his  work  is  a  dreamer 
01  dreams  no  more.     On  the  contrary,  he  is  rather  a 
despotic\voung  autocrat.'    He  places  la  contessa,  gives 
her  her  directions,  requests  Miss  Valentine  rather  per- 
emptonly  to  amuse  herself  with  a  volume  of  designs  in 
the  recess  of  a  window,  and  not  talk.     That  youngjady 
opens  her  blue  eyes  at  the  tone— it  is  one  she  hBSpt 
been  used  to  of  late-then  smiles  a  littie  to  herself,  înd 
proceeds  to  examine  every  article  in  the  studio.     In  due 
course  she  reaches  the  statué  called  «  Waiting,"  and 
twitches  oflf  the  covering  unceremoniously.    Theré  îs  a 
faint  féminine  exclamation.     René,  chipping  and  cuttinff 
in  silence,  is  thrilled  by  it.     Then  she  stands,  as  he  did 
last  night,  a  very  long  time  looking  at  it.     She  glances 
at  him  once,  rather  sHJ^ly,  but  his  eyes— dark  and  stern 
they  look  to-day— are  fixed  on  the  marble  features  of  the 
Contessa  Paladino.     At  last  she  obeys  his  first  command  • 
—goes  to  thc  window  recess,  takes  up  the  big  book  and 
tries  to  interest  herself  in  the  pictures,     But  she  cannot 
—her  thoughts  interest  her  more.   She  Mes  back  dreamilv 


^«d  loôks 


cm  of  the  Window  ihsteàd.  A  flood  of  qui v- 
ering  sunbeams,  the  sound  of  bird  voices,  the  flutter  of 
mukitudinous  leav.es,  an  odor  of  roses  aind  jasmine,  the 


A 


TU 


'W: 


■r-- 


• 


v^ 


«90  *'NOTmNO    COMES    AMISSr 

plash  of  a  fountain  aown  in  the  stone  court-that  is 
what  she  sees  and  hears.  She  is  in  a  dream.  René  ia 
yoflaer--the  bcother  she  loves  ;  she  wishes  she  could  sit 
nm^  and  go  on  dreaming  forever  ! 

The  sitting  ends.  A  shower  of  silvery  chatter  from 
the  vivacious  young  countess  proclaims  it  as  she  rises, 
and  flutters  her  silky  skirts.  She  admires  U  Slgnore 
Scultc^  very  much-la  contessa.  He  is  hanasômer,  she 
Ihmks  than  any  work  of  art  in  hi^  studio-she  admires 
those  lustrons,  beautifui,  dark,  grave  eyes  of  his,  that 

InH?K  :  ^)  \  "'^"°^'-  .  "  °°^y  one  çould  hâve  ail  this 
and  that.  too,  she  sometimes  has  thought.  AU  this  means 
the  glory  of  the  world,  and  the  splendor  thereof-a  bi^ 
palazzo.  family  diamonds,  weekly  balls,  ail  that  cornes 
when  one  accepts  a  noble  hnsba^d  with  sixty  years  and 
much  goût.  That  stands  for  a  tali;  slender  anist  sposo, 
with  handsome  eyes  and  grave  glance^  a  dark  Saint 
Sébastian  sort  of  face,  and  a  perfect  manner.  Only  thèse 
things  never  go  together,  and  one  must  take  which  one 
Ç^l^^^~''''  n^o'-tal  is  so  favored  by  the  gods  as  to 

Madam  Valentine,  gqjng  home  from  her  afternoon 
outing  on  the  Corso,  drives  up  in  state,  presently,  fbr 
her  granddaughter,  Sir  Vane  in  attendance  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  ofifers  hiro  a  commission.     Will  he  make  her 
a  bust  of  Dolores  ?    She  bas  wished  for  one  a  very  lonff 
time,  but  nev^  could  inddce  the  restless  child  to  siL 
She  exclaims  at  the  beauty.  of  la  contessa's,  and  some 
others,  for  though  René  dislikes  portraits,  he  accepts 
commissions  as  yet,  being  much  too  poor  in  fact  to  de- 
chi^e.     One  or  |wo  rather  great  people  havesat  to  him  ; 
he  is  beginning  to  be  known  and  talked  of,  and  to  swim 
away  to  the  golden  shore  of  success.     Will  he  exeèwe  a 
bust  of  Miss  Valentine,  and  will  he  be  so  z/^ry  good^^^  ? 
Itisablank  check  madame  offers  in  her  most  empress- 
like^mann«r,«aiid  M.  Rënë  Wiff^TO  to  suiSkriT  " 


fe^àr'-:?'  :  v^ri)'^^ 


^m^ 


-X 


r 


-fcV-' 


"  WëlATEVEIVS    LOST/* 


y 


991 

An  angry  glow  suflfuses  the  olive  palloç,©!  his  face 
for  a  moment  ;  then  his  eyes  lift,  fall  on  the  young  lady. 
in  question,  and  the  reply  on  his  lip^-a  rather  haughty 
reply,  too,  dies.    What  business  hâve  impecunious  young 
marble  carvers  with  prjde  ?  it  is  a  sin  for  their  betterS 
Let  him  take  his  blank  check,  fill  it  in  handsomely,  and' 
put  it  in  his  pocket.     If  madame  deals  with  hinv  as  a 
queen,  is  she  not  the  Great  Begum  he  càllôi  her  ?    Does 
she  not  so  deal  with  ail  tradesmen  whose  wares  she  pur- 
chases?    Let  him  pocket  his  pride  and  his  price,  do  hiè' 
work,  take  his^jvage,  and  be  thankful.     Snowball  wilî 
be  hère  daily,  and  for  many  hours  each  day  ;  ske  looks 
as  if  shrwould  like  the  sittings  to  begin  this  moment. 

And  so  M.  René  Màcdonald  bows  in  that  grande 
J«^««^r  manner  of  his  la  côntessa  so  much  admires,  and 
which  would  be  much  more  in  keeping  with  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things,  madame  thinks,  if  he  wrote  his  name  ' 
JJqti  René  ;  and  it  is  settled  that  Miss  Valentine  is  to  be 
immortalized  in  marbb,  and  that  the  sihings  are  to  com- 
mence at  once.  '^^ 


««^ 


CHÀPTER  i|XV. 
*•  WHATEVEE'S  LOST,  IT  FIR^  WAS  WON." 


IR  VAl^E  VALENTINE  stands  a  little  apart, 
.  and  strokes  his  mustache,  and  looks  cynical. 
What  a  fool  the  old  grandmamma  is,  after- 
ail!  And  the^lldw  is  so  picturesque-ip  that 
dark  green  workinlg-blouse.  with  his  four-and-twenty 
years,  and  old  acquaintanceship  too  !  Well  !  it  is  not  a 
question  in  which  he  is  going  to  interfère.  Héj&jiot  in 
li^^l^^^r  take  we  of  herself.  She  has  pr^iisef 
aud  will  keep  her  promise-he  k,iows  hèr  well  enough 
for  that    What  does  the  restsignify?  .   - 


■^■^ 


^'IfT^r,     -^  '  -  J 


,*A*^^;?.;  ■' 


'7- 


393 


"  Whàtever>s  lo'st. 


*■ 


The  sittiDgs  begin.     Sometimes  la  côntessa  cornes, 
and  plays  propriety  ;  somçtimes  Mrs.  Tinker  ;  s6nietimes 
grandmamma  herself.     There  is  nôthing  to  alarm  any- 
body-;  they  seem  on  the  vergue  of  an  open  quarrel  half 
the  time,  thèse  two.   Dolofes  is  especially  and  perversely 
contmdictory  and   disputatious.     Monsieur  René  does 
notsay  miich;  hé  smiles  in  exâsperating  subWiority  at 
her  perpétuai  fault-finding.    Butthesharpness,theamdity 
i^.only  surf^ce-deep  ;  la  côntessa,  at  least  sees  that    Even 
Mes.  Tinker  has  an  inkling  that  the  feud  between  them 
is  not  deadly^that  it  î^ot  absolute  hatred  that  flashes 
out.of  the  blue  eyes  when  thef  mect  the  brown 
■^    "My  pretty!"  that  good  old  person  says,  "what  a 
handsome  pair  you  two  do  make  !     Eh,  my  dearie,  if  it 
was  only  him,  and  not  t'other  one  !"     For  Mrs    tinker 
.  does  not  like  "t'other  one,",  does  not  approve  of  the 
comihg  alliance.     "Eh,  my  maid,  'tis  but  ill  always  to 
mate  May  and  December,"  she  says.  with  a  dismal  shake 
c**^r  old  head.     Never  in  her  lifê  has  she  liked  Sir 
.  Vane  Valentine  ;  never  has  she  forgiven  hin>  for  step-  - 
P»ng  m^^  the  place  of  lier  lost  Master  George  ;  never  haé 
she  svwerved  from  her  first  affection.     He  is  in  love  with 
old  mâdame's^money,  not  withthîs  swéetest  maid  under 
the  sun,  and  she  could  find  it  in  "her  leal  old  heatt  to  hâte 
him  for  it.  „.  ,       * 

^  *'  Don't  'ee,  my  lovey  !  àon't  'ee,  dearie  !"  «he  has  said 
over  and  QVer  algain— "  don't  'ee  marfy  Sir  Varie  !  He  is 
no  match  for  thee,  my  pretty  ;  he  is  old  enough  to  be  thy 
father  ;  and  he  is  dour  and  dar)c,  inside  aiid  out.  Don't 
ce,  my  maid  !— don't  'ee  marry  him  !" 

"I  must,  old  lady,"  Dolores  answers,  sighing-  "it  is 
fumet-Aï  M  rffxxxx^n,     Grandmamma  wishes  k  ;  I  must    ' 
please  grandmamma,  you  know.    And  I  hâve  promised     ' 

— it  is  top  late^ow.     Sometimes "  * 

"Tes," my  maid.     Somçtimes-^— " 

t-l  C    -       ._! li  ^m » . 


*^Sometinies,"dreamîîy,Hairto:BerseIf;^a^6à^ewi^^^^ 


,,  T 


{ 


rr,  FIRST    IV AS    WON.« 


,/ 


'9i 


-  ";;^I '!îr'  !"*^  ""'■     'f  '  h?d  only  waited  another  day 

Yqu  must  „ot  say  harsh  things  of  Sir  Vàne  He  U 
very  good,  and-a„d  I  hâve  pfomised.  It  ia  too  îa  , 
now.,    There  is  a  pathetic  ring  inthese  last  words  ■  thev  ^1 

ana^v^hlt  '\''=H' "--éd.  perhaps;  she  was  up:at 

a  party,  the  largcsl^she  has  yet  attended,  last  nlght  and 
the  weather-lent  is  dra«Hng  near,  and  the  weâi^^r 
grows  oppressive.    It.  is  so  oplressi^'^ndeed  thS  she 

't:z\TrT''  'hatjayrvugh  M  «;"; 

wUli^  t?^'  ."■'  *'"'  '^<=<'«'«^.wh.  is  more  than' 
he  fhfh  t'PfT^"'^'  """"  "P  P"nctually  fo^ 
ened  ronn,-^  "  ^'odache,  she  says,  and  lies  in  her  dar^ 
tenl^f  ,  '■^""*  '''"'^'  ^'^''^  grandmamrila;  undeV  pre- 
Tf^  "-y'ng  to.  sleep.  and  Ifcts  Tinker  sit  beside  her 
mstead,  .„d  bathe  her  hands  and  forehead  with  colognl 
She  does  Bot  go  to  the  studio  for  a  week  althon  jh  .1.- 
-tust  is  nearly  completed  now.  and  onTy  a  fet  °  ^e  tl  ■ 

KTh^Tr^  ^^^"-o  Pa-e*sinc:t^^:«,'.  ' 
■ng  on  the  hill-side,  an^  madame  is  talking  of  quittine 
Rome  .mmedmtelyafterEâster,  and  going  to  F?or"nôf 

workof  art  than  anything  else  ;  and  this  last  whim  of 

'      Sr  T  "  f""  "^'^^  '"  ™"'«l"ence.     It  is  not  Tuite 
f  •  "'"■"j,  .'J'^-g"..    The  girl  really  droops  Ihis  *arm 

/       he""-^  "f""'  '""'  *"  '^^^  "right,  wL-rose  œlor  d^r» 


llJp*." 


Of  ^TrT\*'  ""^^  ^"^P^^^t  for  the  completioa 
ling.will  be  such  a  comfort  to  her  when  Dolores  ia  far 


t> 


-\' 


.^•^Af^fni   , 


5»- 

•r 


f^'v 


1- 


Il  ' 


I*, 


.'\ 


1 


^f 


«94 


5  «; 


«* 


WffATÈVÉIPS    LOS7\ 

away.  It  is  not  a  bust,  as  iwras  at  first  intendid  ;  the  idea 
and  the  figure  hâve  grown,  and  the  sittings  hâve  been 
mostly  standingf. ,  It  is  called  "  At  the  Shrine."  It  is  a 
slendergirl,  with/ uplifted  arms,  hands  fill^  with  rose- 
branches,  head  thrown  back,  face  upraised,  trying  to 
reach  and  adorn  a  shrine  of  the  Madonna.  The  poSe  is 
grâce  itself  ;  every  outline  of  the  beautiful  hands  and 
arms,  every  curve  of  ftie  slight,  supple  form,  is  there  in 
the  marble.  The  fair,  youthf ul  face,  like  a  star,  d  flower 
a  rose  is  filled  with  a  sweèt  seriousness  of  whispered 
prayer.     Madame  is  charmqd—is  lavish  of  praise. 

«  You  hâve  caught  her  very  trick  of  expression  when 
she  is  m  church— or  looking  at  a  holy  relic-or  listening 
to  the  grand  music  of  a  mass.  I  can  never  thank  you 
sufficieotly,  my  dear  M.  René,  for  this  treasure." 

"  M.  René  has  ail  the  talents,"  cries  la  contessa.  «I 
think  /like  best  our  Dolores  when  she  is  a  little  muti- 
nous-coquettish— whatyouwill.  .  Not  with  that  look  of 
the  angels.  She  is  everything  there  is  of  the  most 
charming,  but  she  is  only  a  girl  after  ail." 

She  glanceS  keenly  at  the  silent  artist.  "How  say 
you,  M.  René?"  she  demands,  gayly;  «is  our  Dolores 
most  charming  as  an  angel— a  saint  like  this,"  tappin^ 
the  marble  face  with, her  fan,  "  or  as  we  know  hfer— a'be- 
witcbing,  alluring  little  coquette  ?" 

"A  coquette,"  repeats  grandmamma,  not  best  plcased. 
'Dolores  is  never  that.    The  child  is  a  perféct  baby 
wherç  that  fine  art  is  concerned— wiio  should  know  that     ' 
better  than  you,  iontessa  «wt—past  mistress  as  you  are 
of  the  prof essioo." 

But  the  little  countess  only  laughs  at  the  rebuke,  stîll 
looking^at  the  sculpter.  "Signore  René  déclinés  to 
commit  himself.  Well,  he  is  very  wise.  You  will  hâve 
an  exquisite  likeness  at  Icast,  madame,  ©f  our  dearest 


.Belore>-|i^bea~by^  ^be^^  b3^^  ^ 

j.  "In  the  «ituwn."  m^m  mm9r%  tba^mJ^J^ 


t,v.. 


■  .1 


•  --*■    V   .      •S"\%Sf'i^:,rJ^!if^&'^i^^~r,\  'À: 


-tf  ' 


<^^~*  -T 


-•) 


kl 


f, 


'  IT   FIRST    WA$    WON,^  395 

glass  still  up  examining  critically  the  statue,  "they  will  ' 
spend  the  winter  in  travel,  and  go  to  England  in  the 
springfi     I  shall  remain  in  Rome,  I  think."    She  sighs    ' 
and  drops  her  glass.    «  When  will  you  send  me  mv 
treasure,  Mr.  Macdonald  ?"  / 

"In  a  very  few  weeks  now,  madame."  He  ans^ircrs 
gravely,  but  la  contessa  still  keenly  watching,  is  not 
much  the  wiser.  He  is  ^ys  so  grave,  this  austère 
young  M.  René  ;  it  becoraP^i»,  she  think  s.  One  can- 
not  figure  him  frivolous,  or  fritteriug  his  time  away  in 
foohsh  small  talk  and  feeble  platitudes.  Silence  is* 
golden  on  such  lips  as  his.  But  ail  the  same  he  is  hope- 
lessly,  irretrievably,  de^pairingly  in  love  with  Dolores 
Valentme.  •' 

It  chances— for  the  first  time  in  ail  those  months  of 
meeting-that  next  day  Miss  Valentine  aad  M.  René     ^  <^'W- 
find  themselves  alonè,  together,.in  the  studio.     Mr& 
Tinker  is  there,  it  is  true,  in  the  flesh-^in  the  spirit  she 
is  countless  worlds  away  in  the  land  of  dreams.    It  is  a 
very  warm  afternoon,  there  is  that  excuse  for  her.     And 
the  slumberous  rustle  pf  th,e  leaves,  the  twitter  of  the 
-birds,  the  heavy  perfume  of  the  flowers,  outside  the  open 
window,  are  soporific  in  their  tendencies.    The  sitting  is 
ûlmost  over  ;  René  has  chipped  away  in  the  drowsy  still- 
ness,  without  a  word.  Miss  Valentine  too  is  half  asleep 
m  the  perfumed  greenish  hush.    It  is  near  the  hour  of 
Ave  Maria,  near  the  time  to  go.    And  there  is  to  be  bMt 
one  more  coming  after  this.    "  Only  one  more,"  he  says, 
aloud,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  thought.    «Can  you  realize 
that  it  is  almost  three  months  since  we  met  there  at  the 
villa  Ludovisi?    When  hâve  months  so  flown  before  ?" 

She  sighs,  and  is  silent    Yes,  they  hâve  flown-^life's 
best  days  always  do  fly. 

U: — 


ïoa^lcavc  Rome  souirt**  Kene  alSlT 


«  Next  week,"  another  sigh.  "  I  suppose  you  stay  on, 
**Atiny work>-ye8.    Ibavealllcando.    Snowballt* 


T^ 


~^. 


\  hi4 


%>\\ 


"  !i'    ■'i.M.l 


,v 


296 


''WHATEVSlës    LOST 

1  * 


'.A? 


l    ' 


is  no  secret,  and  la  contessa  has  discussed  it  frSelv     O 

her  eyes  fall  beforc  hif .  ^      ^'     ^^'  ^^^^  *^^^°PS. 

"Yes,  René." 

"To  Sir  Vane  ValenUne?" 
"Yes." 

^à,:^z^^.  ^  £r  '^:  '^t''  f  «p^- 

.     a  little  in  her  chair  "  '  ^"^"""^^  ^^°ops 

waIk'--o^rlatta^kf^f\  ^°  you  remember  our  last 

"René!"  1/  . 

^         "  And  you  said  yL  ^vould  not.    Even  then  von  «.« 
I  was  among  the  prc/ohets    I  fel^  if  «.     1^  '  ^      ^^®* 

"René v 

yes.    Is  money  eve.^hin&  then^lA  you    .t    °^ 
cenaiy,  Snowball  ?"  '  "•  *°°'  '»«■• 

"René,  listen •• 

Vane has that,  I èranivo,,    B .7  " "i  "*"•' !  S'' 


r 


fn  -^^ 


'  IT   FIRST-  WAS     WONr  ,97 

h^^V  M  T""  ''  ^  ^''^  '  '^«  ^«ve'-s  her  face  with  her 

mis  rapture.that  fills  her  ^s  she  listens— fills  her  wîfh 
eostasy  .„a  agony  at  once;   He  throws  ^^  ^htun'd 

t":  'L'in^t  S!  ""r*"'^^  '"'^"*''  -"-  p'"^  -'t- o» 

"Is  it  too  late?"  be  asks     "<în««,».«îi  i«  I         '-^ 

havep:^t^rlX%ra.7ay!r''^*  '°<'-''-  ' 

Always  ?"  she  repeats,  and  tries  to  laueh  •  "  ho»  ran 

you  ^y  so  P    We  hâve  been  quarreling  alTouV  liC"" 

you  tttl    T  '""?"  *"^  ^""'«''-    I  hâve  loved 

c°Ten  t!^h  ;  I     T  "*"  '  '•""'*  "'■  '""  ^"™«  Wd  see  you 
given  to  this  loveless  marriage— this  uniovine  man  ?    lî 

.snever  too  late,  SnowbaU  ;  k„  back  whTe^thril ye" 

p..;ît:ir„:::;d%;:tr^^^^^^^ 
T^T^zt;i:.i^  "•'"  ^'°™  ^o"  oar„Torn.t 

ml;  1.  ■  ^!,''''*P'  "•"•«  '»  »  'ate  in  thèse  jhines 

What  hope  could  there  be  for  me,  at  the  best  ?  W 
grandmother  would  never  hâve  given  you  to  me  If  hl 
werebutworthy-ifhe  butcar^  for  you  vo"for  him 

tave  bjdden  God  to  bless  you.  and  gone  on  my  waTmy 
secret  m  my  heart,  to  the  end.  But  it  is  beeauseTki"» 
youwUnot  be  happy.  Happy!"he  starts  „p,  andX 
^.  walking  jp:and^n,  with  aashing  eyS T''y^ 
—ofbelng  brutal,  eve»loj.«,/"  any  oasenes» 


'^ 


Ren^hush!   You  frighten  me.   Youmustnot.   Oh. 


>- 


v-1 


^  .\'4i(Si^ 


"^U 


►  ',  /.; 


te 


:.        298  '*  ipèrAT^r£/ps  zosr." 

^ow  wrong  ail  this  js\    Do  not  say  another   word  ! 

How  can  you  make  me— make  me "    She  covers  her 

face  again,  and  cries  aloud. 

"  Forgive  nje  !"  he  says.     He  is  by  her  side  in  an  in- 
stant,  stricken  with  remorse.     «You  ^re  right.     I  will 
say  no  moré  ;  I  should  not  hâve  spoken  at  ail.     But  your 
happiness  is  so  near  to  me— so  dear  !    I  would  give  my 
hfe  to  secure  it    And  after  to-morrow  we  may  meet  no 
more.    The  thought  of  that  has  been  maddening  me  ail 
thèse  weeks  ;  the  thought  that  so  soon— so  soon  you  will 
be  that  man's  wife,  and  gone  out  of  my  life  forever  ! 
Fate  deals  hardly  by  some  of  us,  Snowball."    There  is 
silence  for  a  little.    He  stands  by  her  chair.    Has  the 
weepmg  ceased  ?    The  drooping  face  is  hidden  still  •  the 
loose  bright  hair  veils  it,  and  falls  across  his  arms,  L  he 
leans  lightly  on  her  chair-back.     «  Snowball,"  he  says. 
little  friend,  tell  me  this.     I  will  ask  no  more,  and  it 

wili  be  something— everything— in  ail  the  years  without 
you  that  are  to  come.     If  I  had  been  sooner  that  day  ou 

the  hill-side— that  fatal  first  day " 

He  breaks  off;  he  can  see  the  quiver  that  goes 
through  the  bowed  figure  as  he  speaks,  but  man-like,  he 
wili  not  spare  her.  "Tell  me,"  he  pleads,  "one  word 
only,  it  is  so  little— so  little.  Mon  Dieu,  and  I  lose  so 
much— " 

^  But  the  word  does  not  come.  There  is  a  movement 
mstead  a  smaU  eold  hand  slips  into  his,  the  slender. 
chilly  fingers  clasp  his  close.  He  is  answered. 
^  '|Miss  Dolores,  my  maid,"  murmurs  a  sl^py  voice, 
is  it  nearly  over?  l'vc  been  dozin,  a  bit,  l'm  afeard  in 
the  stillness  lUce  and  the  beat.  There's  them  evenîni? 
bells  ;  it  muât  be  time  to  be  going^." 

So  Mrs.  tiaker  brings  them  back  to  the  world,  and  1  ' 
out  of  their  dangerous  dream.    Ave  Maria  is  ringing  1 
from  campanile  and  bolfiy,  upagainst  thepippte  Romag^ 
8ky,  and  it  is  time  to  go  home  to  grandraamma  and  din- 
»er,  and  Sir  Vane.    It  is  yery  warm  still,  the  air  quiveiy 


[-''7*4,3 


•■''ft^'.i  ;'^-#.'^  «;■ 


■•A's- 


"/^/A»^     TIfAT    /S    CLOSEST    KEPT»    ig^ 

with  a  sort  of  white  after-glow,  but  the  girl  shivers  as 
she  nses.     It  is  going  straight  oufof  paradise  to— well 
to  a  gray,  grim,  old-fashiqned  house,  and  gray,  grira* 
old-fashioned  people.     But  duty  calls,  and  there  is  a 
silent  hand-clasp,  and  she  goes.    The  carriage  is  waiting 
outside.  the  wide  stone  court,  and  they  enter  anë^  are 
dnven  away.     Long  after  they  hâve  gone,  long  after  the 
workmen  départ,  long  after  Ave  Maria  ceases  ringing 
long  after  golden  clusters  corne  out,  and  burn  in  thé 
purple,  René  Macdonald  stands  there,  with  folded  arms,. 
and  stares  out  at  the  gemmed,  flower-scented  tWilight 
with  blank  eyes  that  see  nothing  of  the  beauty,  with 
blank  mind  that  holds  but  one  thought— a  thought  that 
keeps  iterating  itself  over  and  over  again  with  the  dull 
persistence  of  such  things,  putting  itself  into  words  of 
its  own  volition,  and  ding-dinging  through  his  brain. 

One  hour  too  late  !    One  hour  too  late  !" 


so 


CHAFJTER   XXVI. 

"  FIRE  THAT  IS  CtOSEÇt^IpT,  BURNS  MOST  OF  ALL.' 

^  ■■ ■■■■  '-■  ■••       --y--      ■■■  .  •  '.  ' 

ADAME'S  treasurc,  «At  the  Shrine,"  cornes 
home  duly,  and  Miss  Valentinegoesno  inore to 
the  studio.  Whether  la  contessa  has  iropped 
a  hint,  whether  madame  herself  siddenly 
awakens  to  a  sensé  of  latent  danger,  whether  Sif  vkne  h^ 
sneered  audibly  in  spite  of  hiraself,  who  knows  îT  Miss 
Valentine  goes  no  more  to  the  studio,  and  by  |grand 


^Jaammars  express  desife.  She  ioofcs  T^tfrerlré^y  iT 
the  young  lady,  and  madame's  looks  at  ail  tiiries  are 
exceedmgly  keen,  piercing,  sidelong— none  may  Wope  to 
éscape  them—as  she  speaks,  but  she  sees  little.    T^e  girl 


V 
."t- 


•^c  ?  ■f^J?'"  *■; 


V 


V 


is  very  pale,  she  looks  a  trifle  fagged  and  weàry,  and  eut 
of  sorts,  but  it  is  oppressive  spring  weather,  and  what  is 
to  be  expected  m  thèse  sultry  weeks?  She  says  nothing 
-nothmg  at  ail,  except  in  a  spiritless  voice,  strangely 
unhke  the  clear,  ^inging,  joyous  tônes  of  Dolores. 
;  Very  well,  grandmamma,"  and  so  turna  and  walks 
.    slowly  and  listlessly  up"  to  her  room. 

Grandmamma  décides  she  is  nôt  in  love  wîth  the 
"^^î:^  f"^  P»<^t"'-e8que  M.  René,  the  fortuneless  sdulptor 
wuh  the  Vandyke  face,  and  grave  brown  eyes,  Lt  ail 
the  same  the  child  needs  change,  needs  it  badll  and 
must  hâve  it  at  once.     So  they  prépare  to  go. 

On  the  day  but  one  before  their  departure  for  fresher 
fields,  and  breezes  new  and  cool,  a  surprise  cornes  to 
good  Mrs.  Tmker.  She  accompanies  the  family  of 
course. .  Madame  goes  nowhere  without  her,  and  she  is 
busy  m  the  midst  of  much  packing,  when  she  is  sum- 
moned  to  her  own  particular  sitting-room,  to  see  a 
visitor.  Going  m  haste,  apd  rather  breathless,  she  finds 
awaiting  her  a  young  woomn,  whose  face  and  dress  pro- 
claim  her  nationality  before  she  speaks  a  word.    That 

me  hkely.  Mis'  Tinker,"  says  this  young  woman,  in  a 
nervous  tone  nsing  as  she  speaks.    "It's  a  pretty  con- 
•  siderable  spell  sence  we  met  afore-nigh  onto  fifteen 
years,  I  reckon." 

^  "  Why,  lord  bless  me  !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Tinker,  adjust- 
ing  her  spectacles  in  direst  amazement  «I  do  déclare 
if  it  isn't  Jemima  Ann  \" 

"  Yes,  Mis' Tinker;  1%  awful  glad  you  ain't  forgot 
me.  I  m  over  hère  with  a  family^  Bosting  folks  they 
be,  and  now,  the  lady,  she  up  ahd  died.  She  was  sort  o' 
peaky  and  pmin'  like  ail  the  passage.  An  so  l'm  out  o' 
place  and  hearing  you  wa»  hère,  Mis'  Tinker,  I  thought 
ferold  times^fce,^^  pôôTAunt  SàmantTiF      "^    ^ 


» f*wv*.  *»ui.i  vjrtiuautiiy— —       Hère 

Jemima  Ann  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  èyes,  and  Mrs. 
Tmker  sighs  responsivoly.    Ajint  Samantha  has  gon<^ 


'• -^'ij'l^ïï^jj 


\    A^ 


BURNS  IMOST    OF    ALL.» 


301 


the  way  ail  landlâdies,  even  the  best,  must  go  some  time 
— the  way  of  ail  flesh.  \ 

At  this  moment  thedooropeis  suddenly,  and  a  young 
lady— an  apparition,  it  seems  to  Jemima  Ann— in  gray 
silk  and  amber  ringlets,  comes  in,  and  pauses  at  sight  of 
the  stranger.  «Oh,  dôme  in,  my  dearie  !"  say^  Mrs. 
Tmker.  «I  lyas  just  going  to  you  «to  aik  your  ad  vice. 
You've  often  hèard  me  speak  of  Jemima  Ann,  who  was 
so  good  to  you  when  you  stopped  for  a  35?eck^t  her  aùnt's, 
and  whowaited  on"— lowering  her  voice-i-«your  poor 
ma  l  Well,  this  is  Jemima  Ann,  Miss  Dolqres,  my  lovoy 
and  she  is  out  of  place,  and " 

But  the  young  lady  waits  for  no  more.  Her  fair  face 
flushes  up,  she  crosses  the  room,  and  hold^  out  both 
hands.  "And  you  are  Jemima  Ann  !  Oh  !  I  hâve  heard 
ail  that— of  your  goodness  and  affection— ail  that  you 
did  for  me,  for  my  poor  mother,  in  the  past.  J  was  a 
baby  then,  too  young  to  know  or  thank^you,  or  feel 
grateful  ;  but  I  feel  ail  now.  I  thank  you  with  my 
whole  heart  If  thère  is  anything  wë  can  do  for  you— 
anything— you  niay  be  sure  it  shall  be  done." 

Jemima  Ann-^ps,  stands,  stares.  "  You  !— you  !^ 
why,  Lor'!  You  ne  ver  air  little  Snowball,  grown  up.like 
this  !" 

"Little  Snowball— no  one  else— to  whom  you  were 
so  very,  very  good.  Not  so  little  now  though,  you  see. 
And  wh%t  are  you  doing  in  Rome,  of  ail  places,  Jemima 
Ann  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  explains,  with  considérable  confusion, 
caused  by  the  shock  of  finding  little  Snowball  in  ihis 
graceful  young  lady.  Aunt  Samanthy  died,  the  boarders 
dispersed,  Jemima  Ann  went  down  to  Bosting  (strong  * 
nasal  twang  on  the  first  syllable),  took  service  there  with 
^  Jady^-out  of  heaUh.  Be'n  livin^  wîth  thât  lady  right  " 
along  sence.  Lady  ordered  to  Europe  by  docfors  for 
change  of  air.  Took  Jemima  Ann  with  her  as  kind  o* 
«iirse-tender.    Up  and  died,  hère  in  Rome,  a  week  ago, 


'4; 


f-i^ 


i:l 


'    irm 


éB^ 


„,-^.\%t^t  V**"  lî/'.-t)  uï      ^'ivS^^   •>   ■^■-i 


^  ^,  i  "v-^à^^;^ 


t^{'  ' 


'-^r 


.w~ 


7*' A  •'S  'ST'»  ^•■^ 


P^^ 


¥ù 


30.     "^/ff^    7-^^r    /j    cZ05£5r  XSJ-i; 


find    hërse     Ts?'' V'°'  °^*'-    ^""^  ^-'-a  An„ 
she  had  hld    hTr^elTtinVrir  """■    ?^  "'""^« 

alWedMis-TinkermfghttestiUw^hr'  '"^^  ""^ 
eWace  1»,  corne,  and-is  hère  "■*■"•     °''  '^' 

VaI«Mr„V%r'.f*',H'"y '■;*"«»  '"P""»"»  Miss 
th"  way    and  Wer,r    /°"  '""''  ?'  6°'°S  •«'^k  ail 

Iwfll  tke°":rXire-t^;f;  blueeyes-"and 
self  my  maid."  «^"^e,  -gayly—   consider  your- 

"  And  that  is  little  Snowball  !— Httle  Snr.«,Koii  f    o 

Mt  if  ••  °°*.  "^"=eP's  *ne  pSer,  of  coufse,  "right  elid  to 
get  it,   as  she  says,  and  is  especially  détailfl  Vff  i  l 
M.SS  Va  entine'sparticular  service     ^     .      "*  "*,'?"' 

.i»e  ;;;\^rcé^ree.tl„r h  T  "  -"•  "■' «- 

of  the  antediluyian  woSd?om^^*^  r  k'."*"  »  "O"»'" 
man  household  CeTteinl,  T  ■  '*■"  '""  '°  «*"»  «"- 
iheir  Itatian^rvants  He  h»!  i'  *'  '"'"'"'  ""  P"»»'"" 
slipshod  handm Jd  of  ,he  CI»r     m^^k'*"'  °'  '"""^  '"e 

throwherself  aljî^on^a^"''?  !""'''»'"»  K°'»«  t» 
<n  rou,  ri,  sure     ^t^M  .??"'  ''°°''  '»'««  *«  see» 

wi^  di^niondt^Jho^r         '  ""V»"  "  yo"  "^hung 
M  fT  ^    ^°"  mayn't  think  so  " 


Vr.5.-f?.. 


"  '»'/(jfT 


BURNSMOST    OF    ALL.^ 


303 

-and  a  servant  more  or  less  in  an  establishment  like 
this  matters  httle.     She  is  an  American,  friendless  in  a 

hearf  to  .1*  ''  •'  ''^*^  "^^  ^"^^  girl's  gentle,  gênerons 
heart  to  compass.onate  and  care  for  ail  such    3ut  if 

madame^««^knew  that.this   stolid,  homely,  rather 
dumsy  Yankee  woman  had  closed  the  dying%és  of 
Mlle.  Mim,  Tnllon,  had  ministered  to  her  fof  days  be- 
iST^    ^f^  the  whole  well-hidden  secret  of  the  trapézistes 
hfe  and  death-be  very  sure  the  massive /.r/.Jof  the 
.  old  Roman  house  would  never  hâve  seen  her  pass  in. 
and  many  leagues  of  blue  water  intervened  between  he; 
and  the  fair,  stately  daughter  of  the  house.    But  »r^nd- 
mammas  are  not  to  know  everything  ;  the  Ion/  lonir 
conférences  of  the  past  are  held  with  closed  do"s%  thf 
dim    fragrant  dusk  of  mademoiselle's  boudoir.    Lying 
back  her  slim  figure  draped  in  those  pale  lustrons  silks 
and  fine  laces  madame  loves  to  deck  her  darling  in  her 
nX'!  ^^'!k  ^'?^"^  ^^'  «^°^^"°  ^«^^>  Miss  Valentine 

istens  by  the  hour  to  Jemima  Ann  Hopkins  telling  of  ^ 
that  t^tne  so  longago,  when  little  Snqwball  Trillon  <Sme  ' 

the  beauty  and  brightneSs,  and  tragic  death  of  thé  young 
mother.  Of  the  belated  suppers,  of  the  many  love^ol 
the  hilanous  state  m  which  poor  Mimi  sometimes  c^me 
home,  she  discreetly  says  nothing.  Jemima  Ann  has  a 
dehcacy  and  tact  of  hfer  own,  under  her  gingfer^olored 
complexion  and  down-East  drawl.  K^r^oiorea 

A.l^l  tJ^e  Shnne"  cornes  home,  and  isplacedîn  ma- 

D?nTiS''c  r^"*''?^  particular^itting.room,  with  a 
p  nk  3»rk  curtam  so  draped  as  to  throw  a  perpet^  rosy 

othcr  orders  flow  m  upon  the  talented  young  wtist . 
pn^y  th^  ^ag  lady  hf  r  J|  saya  nothliiiLsh!  sUnds 
and  looks  at,twith^looseiPlaspedha„5ÎKrarstr 
far.aivay  look  th^t.  madame  has  au  especi  J^bjection  2 
inhergrçatstar-Ukecyes.  j^^-nun  ro 


"ir 


Jéfi 


^ 


,    y.  T.,./.  ^•=^■-;^*f:?/i•  v;,^;■^•v.,^',;^;n.,:»;^r..^,ï• 
•  ,  '  i  '■       •     •  -      '     '  ■'"■■-.. 

304     "/7iP^    THAT    IS    CWSEST    KEPT^ 

"Well,  Dolores,"  she  says,  sharply,  -  are  you  asleep 
-in  a  dreapi-that  you  stand  there,  and  say  nothiniç? 
Do  you  not  admireithis  exquisite  gem  ?" 

"  It  is  very  pretty,  grandmamma." 

'  Very  pretty,  grandmamma  !"  mimicking  the  listless 

to^mv  et  %"  p  ^""  '"'  '°  ^^^-  ^  --'  ^"  '^  s 
tomy  élever  Mr.  René,  that  you  are  the  only  obe  who 

has  not  seen  his  ptatue  and  not  been  éharmed  I  say  he 
has  caught  your  very  expression-it  is  the  most  perfect 
thing  of  ,ts  kind  I  ever  saw.  It  will  be  a  great-thc 
greatest  comfort  to  me,  when  I-when  you  are  gone  " 

Dearest  grandmamma  !"  The  girlcomes  and  puts 
\l\l^^  Ti  ^^"'  ^'  '*^^  '''^'  ^°^  '^«  f^'rliead  droops 
much  ]&•  ^«"f;«t°«g:oodtomé.  You  love  me  too 
much.  No  one  will  ever  care  for  me  again  like  that.  It. 
is  not  well  to  be  spoiled.  -  Grandmamma,  I  wish  I  wer#: 
not  gomg  away." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  An  old  grandmother,  however 
fond,  cannot  esçpect  to  keep  her  little  one  to  herself 
always.  And' what  do  you  mean  by  no  one  loving  you 
agam?    Sir  Vane "  .  uviug  you 

^y.l\^^^  •"  '^^*  ^o^o^es,  and  something  in  the  sound  of 
the  Iittle  Word  makes  madame  pause  a  moment. 

Youdoubtit?  You  need  not,  my  dear.  He  is  fond 
of  you-very  fond  of  you,  ;|)elieve  me.  He  is  réticent- 
reserved  by  nàture-it  is  not  his  way  to  ,how  it.and  he 
IS  older  than  you-it  is  the  one  thing  /object  to  in  this 
union,  but,  for  ail  that,  my  dearest,  I  am  confident  he 
loves  you  with  ail  his  heart."  v  « 

."Ah!"  repeats  Miss  Valentine,  and  laughs,  "has  hé 
told  you  so,  grandmamma?  It  is  inore  than  he  has 
ventuxed  to  tell  me.  With  the  best  inclinations  in  the  < 
world  to  be  credulous  in  such%  point,  I  fear  the  effort 
wopld  be  too  grçat.  But  what  does  it  ihatter  after  aU." 
l^lLhere.  that  Is Jialf^  sob^Ut  ^W  be  ili^^sanie— 


fifty  years  hence." 

VMy  darling,  that  is  a  dreaty  philosophy  from  youth 


■^iï*sSfe'^{È#L*>«H&i4**''*'»''*-'^  *«^,  ^  *•'' 


-&I  -■jS^'isÊi^î^rt. 


•.V. 


\ 


:|>-T.. 


:^C^i 


; 


7  m""f"K^'''7.7,''- 


OF    ALLr 


rf§.     MOk»j.      wj'     aul."  305 

fyl  lips.  Why  are  you  so  sad— sd  listless,  of  îate,  so 
weary  of  ail  that  uscd  to  set  you  wild  with  delight  ?  Is 
it  that  you  are  out  of  health— that  this  heat "  J 

^"Oh,  yes,  grandmamma  !"  rather  eagerly  ;  "that  is 
it—this  h(^t.  Any  one  would  wilt,  with  the  thermometer 
up  among  the  nineties.  And  the  spring  is  so  lopg  so 
lonç.  I  grow  tired  of  this  perpétuai  starmg  sunshme, 
and  the  smell  of  the  roses  and  oimnge  t^es.  I  would 
giye  a  year  ^if-m^  life  for  one  day  of  poor  old  Isle  Per- 
drix, and  its  sea  fogs,  and  bleak  whistling  winds."  And 
th^^n,  to  madam^'s  infinité  dismay  and  distress,  ail  in  a 
moment,  thp  fair  head  is  burie^Iow,  and  the  slender 
form  is  rent  an^  shaken  with  a  very  tempest  of  sobs. 

"  My  c^hild  !  my  child  !"  is  ail  madame  can  say  in  hejr 
deep  consternation.  "Oh  !  my  little  one,  wJiat  i's  tliis  ?" 
^  But  with  a  great  eflfort,  thç^ummer  tempest  ends  as 
quickly^s  it  began  ;  a  few  hystérie  sobs""  hurrîedly  sup- 
pressed,  and  then  a  great,  calm.  "Forgive  me,  grand- 
mamma—dear,  dearest,  best  grandmamma  that  ever  was 
Sn  the  world— fbrgive  me  for  thisJ-^Pdid  not  mean— 
only  I  am  so  tited,  soN^ired^  out  with  it  ail.  If  I  were 
away,  I  would  be  better.  Take  me  away  from  Rome, 
Çfrandmamma."  1  ;     / 

"/y  there  ânything  in  it^thinks  madame,  in  dire 
dismay;  a  little  later,  and  alone.     "  Did  she  go  too  much  \ 
to  that  studio  ?    He  is  very  handsome,  aiid  she  knew  him 
always.     How  foolish,  how  extremely  foolish  and  rash,  I 
hâve  been  !"  ' 

But  it  is  not  too  Iate  yet— at  l^st  madame  thiàks  so'; 
oiïe  may  always  hôpe  so  much  for  young  persons  under, 
twenty,  and  time  and  distances  are  such^  capital  cures. 
They  départ  at  once,  with  their  maid-servants  and  their/ 
.  man-servants,  and  the  house  in  Rome  is  shut  up  for  the 
présent.  Madamt  proposes,  drearily  enmi^h.  fg  occupy 
ît  with  her  faithf uT  Tinter  this  winter-alone.  ^^^,   ^ 

,     M.  Rene.Macdonald,  among  his  clay  casts,  and  plasto 


gC'l  5 


■X .  '?. 


\  ,1. 


h^ 


/ 


?^.v; 


;    g     306     «/T^p^    TUAT    rs    CLOSEST   KePt, 

figiires,  and  bro^n,  dark-eyed  Roman  models  of  saint. 

and  brigands,  wofks  away  alone  thèse  sultry  May  dayi 

He  does  not  m.nd  the  heat,  he  likes  it  ;  hc  is  absorbed 

n  his  work,  fevenshly  so,  indeed.     He  grows  thin  fn 

"eU?f  ;'°"'!^'  ^^^--'^^«^  »^ours  ;  hU  brown  eye^ 
7.^  ,^>7^J^'^«/°'d«°  Genoa  velvet,"  la  contessa  bas  on  J 
said-take  a  deeper,  darker  orbit  ;  his  oliVe  cheek  gro^s 

hke  the  bird  of  Paradise  she  is,  tells  him  gayly.     But  he 
grows  no    ess  handsome,she  think^ning,  pouf  r  for 
labamhf^la.     Pretty?    Yes  ;  la  conlea  could  maie  a 
pretticrfacejn  pint  and  white  wak,  anyky .  ^SwW 
for  h,r  this  ^ignore  René,  who  looks  like  one  of  his  ôwn 
;  god^  and  cames  himself  M)ce  a  king  ;  who  has  the  face 
of  a  Raphaël,  and  the  gei^j^too-groU  thin,  and  silent 
and  ^tern,  and  shuts  himiSf  up  like  a  hermit  in  his  ceU 
^a  contessa  does  il  Signore  Scultore  the  honor  to  be  deeply 
irterested  m  his  case,  intrbduces  him  to  half  his  patronf 
lavishes  invitât  ons  upon  him,  and  meets  with  the    su^ 
tul      iS^  g«*>^"e3«  in  this  world-indiflference,  ingrati- 
tude.    ^  R^ne  wishes,  irrit^bly  enough  sometinies!  this 
J^rting  little  painted  butterfly  would  spread  her  g^geous 
l^ings,  and  fly  oflF  to  other  victims  and  leave  him  £l 
But  la  contessa  thinksotherwise-shecan  pL 
hke  a  wasp    butterfly  tho||rh  she  be.    If 
marble  hke  his  own  crcatioh-will  not  imSÊÊÊIf^mnA 
a£mire,she  will  at  least  awake  within  .hî^S  other 
feehng.    He  must  be  human  at  least  in  some  thini^s!! 
1^0  enough  to  feel  pain.    AU  she  can  -inflict  he  shall 
^«.punishmenf.    She  flutters  in  to  tell  him  in 
fl.riliffiîdSl^f  •'^'^°  the  Valentînes  Ic^e  Rome  ;  she 
m^^OP^r  ^''^iï^^P^'^^nST  Octoberday,  just  five 
moraOt^  of  a  f^fiable  marriage  at  NicJ^i 

-,«-1,  Il        *?®°'  ^^^^  months  in  the  solitude  of  fais 
^^shop,andsç„lptitfc^4t^bes|,isnc^ 


■    ■*£■ 


«T" 


n 


chi! 
(air 

sr       po.S 

'      in  I 


,.t# 


# 


He  has  been  workinghard,  commissions  I«ve  beea  bien- 
ttful  enough.  «d  a  fair  gùerdon  pf  botb  famé  «>d  gol* 


y 


te.  ^" 


^^'i^W-'^-^*,^ 


JiUJiNS    AfOST    OF    ALL/» 


.,«   • 


307 

^^  bcen  won     He  might  hâve  won  friends,  too,  frîcnds 
.«JjJ,  VYorth  ihe  winning.  had  he  so  chosen.     But  he  is 
,  ^oÇ'af  in  thèse  days  ;  even  arûong  his  bl-others  of  thç 
chisel  hp  cares  to  cuUivate  few  friendships.    But  he  is  in 
tairly  gpod  spirits^pn  this,particular  day,  for  thc  early^ 
post  haà  brouglit  him  a  letter  from  a  fricnd,  long  Uvi  J 
.  in  Russja,  but  now  en  route  for  Rome. 

Paui  Farrar  js  on  hfs  way  to  Italy„and  it  is  tb'Paul 
vn.-'''''"J?K "^  T^'  e^erythhg,  the  récognition  and  culti- 
vationdf^,stalçiït-his.stu<Jio  in  Rome!  his  first  success: 

*L  .Uk"^  '"  ^*^^^^'^°&  ^hee"ly  as  he  chips,  and  for 
once  th<^^  hauntiùg  ghost  that  seldom  l^ves  him  is  laid- 
a  ghost  !in     sheen  of  satin  and  shimmer  of  pearls"  with 

^Uk-draped  appantion,  the  Contessa  Paladino  is  bef^ 

:  She  js  not  alone-a  Neapolitan  marchese  and  a  Brit- 
ish  attache  form  her  body-guard.     She  has  been  absent 

chfttter  and  silvery  small  talk  as  usuaL 
•  "  An^  the  wédding  is  over-mîiordo's-but  you  hâve 
lieard  /^  of  course,  signore  mio?"  she  says.  Ravlv  ' 
api^pos  of  nothing  that  has  gôneS>efore.  /  '  »  J'  J'» 
"I  hear  nothing,  mitdame.  News  from  the  rtIs± 
world  never  piekes  the  walls  of  my  workshop,  e  W 
what  you  are-god^enough  to  teil  me." 

The  little  touc^of  sarcasm  in  the  last  words  are  not 
lost  on  la  po^tessa.     Neither  is  the  quick  contiactio«  of 

fl      «'^'u!?lÛ'P''  *°*^  a  perceptible  paling  of  the  dark 
face.   «  Che  !  Che  !  then  it  is  for  me  to  give  you  the  good 

"T*.  ^"'  î  ^"'•^^y  thoaght-such  frieûds  as  you  se^od 
—that  ^he  Would.  hâve  donc  it  herself.    Ànd  it  is  ail 

Z'^^-^^^^^^^^'^'^^''^ heard     She  haa 


"f 


".  t 


^er-ncfim,  i^s  natu^alistTTmpale  bcetles.  on  a  pin  and 
Watches  with\  dancm^g,  malicious  eyes  tfie  effect  of  her 
wojrda.    But  he  works  on,  and  gives  no-feign.    ^  • 


01' 


U- 


*>\- 
\-%'\ 


,1 


F,* 


^     3P8    «J?7^^    TIfAT   IS    CLOSEST    K£FT» 

"La  Signorina  looked  ^ovcly,  exquisite^every' one 
said  so  ;  and  £>io  mia  !  how  she  was  dressed  !     It  Was  the 
wedding-robe  and  jewelry  of  a  princess.     The  bride- 
,  maids-eight  of  them-were  ail  English  ;  four  in  pink, 
and  iour  in  blue.    Milordo  was  solemn,  and  stiff.  and 
black  as  usual-blacker  than  usual,  I  Uiink.    TheV  are 
to  travel  until  spring,  and  then  return  to  their  native 
logs.     Bonne-mamma  cornes  hère,  you  knôw.     Of  your 
chanty,go  to  see  and  console  her,  Signore  René;  the 
poor  grandmamma  !     She  is  désole  sconsolato  " 

He  says  something  ;  it  i^brief,  and  sounds  indiffèrent, 
and  stm  Works  on.  * 

"I  saw  Sir  Vane  and  Lady  Valentine,"  says  the  Eng- 
lishman  who  is  examining  the  figure  called  "  Waitin^  " 
through  his  glass.  -  She  tsvery  beautiful.quite  the  most 
beautiful  personi  have^"  he  checks  himself  just  in  time 
for  la  contessa's  eye>  are  already  Jooking  daggers— «this 
Cace  resembles  her,  I  think.     Is  it  a  portait  f'  " 

„I  t""*  René  Works  on,  anly  cônscious  of  one  thing-an 
unuttered  wish  that  they,  would  ^o.    But  they  do  not 

î  ;T  ^'T*":  """"^  look.^nd  admire,  and  criticise,  until  4ie 
feelsas  if  the  sound  of,  their  voices  were  driving  him 
mad.  La  confessa  remains  until  she  is  absolutely  forced 
to  départ  and  goes  with  a  pétulant  sensé  of,disappoint. 
men  under  her  gay  «  Addio,  signore."  She  really  can- 
rnlH  \r^""'*'''/^^'P^'"^'^"^  y°""&  s<^"lptor,  as 
or  not  '        '  ""'  ''"^'  '''''"  ^^"^^^  °^  °'^'"^'«'  ^^^^« 

^h?ff^  ^v    ^1  '^^  ^r**^  °"^y  ^"'  *^^«  s^°  I»«n, 
when,  the  atelier  doors  closed,  locked,  he  stands  there 

alone  with  his  love  his  loss,  his  despair  !    Married,  and 

ao  Sir  Vane  Va  entine  !  Ah  !  la  contessa,  even  your  out- 

,^d  vanity,  from  feminitfe  spite-the  hardest  thing 

^uûder  heaven  to  satisfy-might  hâve  had  its  fill  and  to 

^^sp^eoold  you  httve  looked  through  those  locked  d^wT^ 


<i 


*  -» 


.,    k< 


tAifUi  '^*»5 


the 


as 


U-%«f«.%\"' 


5. 


*" FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  EOATS» 


30g 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"FORTUNE    BRINGS    IN    SOME  BOATS    THAT  ARE    NOT 
^        STEERED."  /  ^ 

|T  is  the  afternoon  of  a  raw  and  rainy  October 
day.    An  express  is  thundering  rapidly  Rome- 
ward  in  even  morè  of  a  ^lurry  than  usual,  for 
it  is  trying  to  rrake  up  half  an  hour  of  lost 
time.     In  a  compartment  there  sits  by  himsclf  a-  man, 
bearmg  upon  him,  frorp  head  to  foot,  the  starap  of  steady 
travel.,  He  is  big,  he  is  brown,he  has  dark  resolute  eyes 
— eye$  at  once  gentle  and  strong,  kindly  and  keen.     The 
mouthsuits  theeyès;  it  is  square-cut,  determined-look- 
mg,  wjth  just  that  upward  curve  at  the  corners  that  tells 
you  itfWouêd  not  be  nécessary  to  explain  the  point  of  a 
joke  to  him.     His  hair  is  profuse  and  dark,  sprinkled  a 
little  with  gray,  though  he  looks  no  more  than  forty,  and 
is  mchned  to  be  kinky  and  curl.     His  square,  broad 
shoulders  and  crect  mien.givo  him  a  little  the  look  of  a 
mihtaryman.     But  he  is  not;   he  is  only  a  succéssful 
speculator,  coming  to  Rome  after.a  prolonged^sojoum 
in  Russia  and  the  East.    A  few'days  àg<>  he  landed  at 
Marseilles,  now  he  is  speedin^  along  at  a  thundering 
ratetowàrd  the  Holy  City,  and  a  certain  greatly  esteemed 
young  friend  he  expects  to  find  there. 

"René  won't  know  me  with  ail  the  be^rd  off,"  he 
thmks,  stroking  from  custbm  the  place  where  a  heavy 
mustache  used  to  be.  «  It  was  a  pity,  but  it  had  to  go. 
It  was  so  confoundedly  hot  there  in  Caljo  I  would  hâve 
taken  oflf  my  flfesh  as  well,  if  I  could,  and  sat  in  my 
„bongs.  Le^,us„  hope  no  onc  who  evei  ktiew  mfr  itt  tfag- 
old  days  will  be  loàûag  about  Rome.  If  so,  I  shall  be 
tound  out  to  a  dead  certainty." 

For  it  is  Paul  Farrar,  minus  that  silky  black-browB 


> 


i«/AC2>'-iîiKàà!k!-*â',''  t  ' 


't> 


■ifr 


H' 


3to  ''FORTVNM  BRINGS  ÎN  SOME  B04TS 

beard  and  drooping  mustàche  that  became  hira  so  well. 
The  change  alte^  him  wonderfully.     It  is  the  George 
Valentine  of  two-and-twenty  years  ago  ;  somewhat  big- 
ger,  somewhat  browner,  much  more  manly  and  distin- 
guished-looking,  but  otherwise  so  much  the  same  bright, 
boyish-looking  George  that  any  one  wh6  had  ever  known 
him  in  those  old  days— before  he  was  drowned  in  the 
Belle  O'Brten—must  hâve  recognized  him  no w,  despite 
that:  melancholy  fact,  almost  at  a  glance.     "  If  I  were 
going  to  the  New  World  now,"  he  thinks,  half  smilii^^ 
as  they  fly  along,  "instead  of  the  very  oldest  city  of  the 
old  world,  it  would  never  do.     I  don't  Covet  récognition 
at  this  late  day.     No  good  could  come  of  it.     I  am  un- 
forgiven  still,  and  everything  is  disposed  of,  as  it  should 
be,  to  the  little  one.     Pity  she  married  Sir  Vane— never 
will  be  half  good  enough  for  her,  let  him  try  as  he  may. 
But  I  don't  think  he  will  try.     René  would- hâve  suited 
her— pity,  again,  they  could  not  hâve  hit  it  oflf.     Not 
that  madame  would  ever  hâve  consented—her  hopes  and 
ambitions  are  the  same  to-day  as  they  were  when  her 
only  son  disâppointed  her,  like  the  headstrong  young 
fool  he  was.    Ah,  well,  thèse  things  are  written  in  AUah's 
big  book— it  is  ail  Kismet  together.     Whom  among  us  is 
stronger  than  his  fate  ?" 

The  train  stops  at  a  station  and  Mr.  Farrar  gets  o\À 
to  light  a  cigar  and  stretch  his  legs.  A  drizzling  raîâ^S 
fîllling,  a  chilly  wind  is  blowing,  he  pulls  down  his  feit 
bat,  pulls  ug  his  coat  collar,  and  strides  up  and  down  the 
platform  during  the  few  minutes  of  their  stay.  Doing 
so  he  glances  carelessly  into  the  c^rriages  as  he  passes. 
One,  a  first-class  compartment,  holds  two  elderly  women, 
a  lady,  evidently,  and  her  maid.  The  lady,  a  grand- 
looking  personage,  of  serene  mien,  and  silvery  hair  and 
face,  r^sts  agaiust  the  cushions  with  eyes  half'closed. 


The  scnrant  sits-  irear  the^  WîHaô  w  àWd^  gazës^         AT 

sight  of  thèse  two  Mr.  Farrar  receives  such  a  shock  that 

,'™^  *  «non»®"'  he  stands  stock-still,  a  petrified  gazer 


'S 

o  well. 
jreorge 
it  big- 
distin- 
bright, 
known 
in  the 
lespite 
[  vvere 

of  the 
nition 
m  un- 
ihould 
•never 
5  may. 
suited 

NQt 

s  and 
n  her 
""oung 
Uah's 
:  us  is 

tS  Ql^ 

airils 
s  feit 
n  the 
)oing 
isses. 
•men, 
rand- 
•  and 
osed. 


^^.■,/i^^.^ 


that 
azer 


THAT   ARE    NOT    STEERED^  3„ 

His  face  pales  startlingly  under  his  brown  skin,  he  looks 
as  though  he  could  not  believe  his  own  sensé  of  sighl 

InJ  rr°  i^°^'  ^'  *"^'  ^^^^  "P'  ^'«°k«  ^^in»  wifha 
low,  fngh  ened  ejaculation,  and  glances  at  the  mistress/ 

A  second  later,  she  looks  out  again-in  that  second  he  is 
gone         ,  *? 

^^JWhat  is  it.  Tinker?"  asks,  wearily,  Madam  Valen- 

«  Oh,  madame  !  my  dear  mistress,  I  saw  a  man,  only 

a  glimpse  of  him,  but  it  made  me  think  of— of " 

"Well?"pettishly. 

"  Master  George.  It  was  that  like  him.  Dear  heart  ! 
what  a  start  it  did  give  me,  to  be  sure." 

"Nonsense,"  madame  says,  sharply.  «  How  can  you 
be  such  an  old  idiot,  Tinker.  You  should  hâve  more  re" 
g^rd  for  my  feelings  than  to  speak  that  nâme  in  that 
abrupt  way.  Does  it  still  rain ?"  wearily.  «Tinker  I 
wonder  where  my  dear  child  is  by  this  time  ?" 

"In  better  weather  than  this,  poor  lamb,  wherever  it 
s,    responds  Mrs.  Tinker,  with  a  shiver.     'f  Lawk  !  my 
^y,  I  feel  Chili  to  the  bone.     I  do  hope  now  An^  mer 
wiU  see  to  the  fires  ail  through  the  house.    It  would  b^ 
the  very  wust  thing  that  ever  wus,  for  you  to^  into 
damp  rooms  after  such  a  journey  as  thia" 
w  ",.?°  y°"  *^^"*;  «^«  l«°ked  happy,  Tinker,  when  we 
î„   M  P"""^«,"f  d*™«»  «nheeding  the  weather,  absorbed 
m  thought  of  her  resigned  treasure.    "She  cried    of 
course,  at  the  parting,  but  do  you  thibk  she  looked 
happy   and  as  a  young  bride  should?    iVow  afraid 
sometimes—afraid— i— "  ,  ©     ,    «xiou* 

"Well,  ma'am,  to  speak  plàin  truth.  Sir  Vane  ain't 
neither  that  young,  nor  that  pleasant  as  he  might.  be.  I 
always  thought  him  a  molloncholy  and  sad  gintttman, 
mysel|.  But  tastesdiffer.  Jf^^Mi.,  Boïore/i^imp^^- 

young  lamb-.no  more  fit  to  be  uçed  bad  than  a  baby. 


.«^"Wr  * 


*  ^\^ 


3"   ''^ FORTUNE ^RINGS  IN  SOME  BQATS 

But--"    She  breaks  oflf  as  her  mistress  has  doiie— un- 
finished  sentences  best  express  their  fears.     Both  are 
filled  with  fore>oding  and  vague  tegret,  jiow  that  the 
deed  is  done  beyond  ail   recall.     Her  darling  is  not 
happy^she  sees  that  at  last.    And  the  fault  is  hers-she 
who  would  giye  the  remuant  of  her  old  life  tomake  her 
so.    She  has,  mdirectly  at  least,  forced  her  into  a  love-  ^ 
less  raarriage,  with  a  man  double  her  âge,  a  man  ill-tem- 
pered  and  mercenary,  a  man  no  more  capable  of  valuin^ 
the  sweetness,  beauty,  youth,  he  has  won,  than  he  is  of 
doing  a  great,  a  gênerons,  an  unselfish  deed.     Her  child 
wished  to  remain  with  her.  and  she  forced  her  from  her 
--thrust  her  into  the  arms  of  Vane  Valentine.    And  now 
that  remorse,  and  sorrow,  and  fear,  corne  upon  her.  it  is 
too  late— for  ail  time,  too  late  ! 

The  traiq  rushes  along  on  its  iron  way  ;  evening  is 
closmg,  foggy,  and  windy,  and  wet.     3he  do^es  a  little 
as  she  lies  wearily  among  the  stuffy  cushiohs,  but  she  is 
too  filled  with  unrest  to  sleep.     It  is  three  weeks  now 
smçe  the  weddmg-day,  and  she  and  her  faithful  old  ' 
friend  are  journeying  back  to  Rome,  there  to  spend  the 
winter.     Next  spring  the  newly-wedded  pair  are  to  go  to 
Vàlentme  ;  m  the  summer  she  is  to  join  them  for  a  pro- 
longèdvisit.    That  is  the  programme,  if  ail  iswell.    But 
ail  will  be  well,  be  happy.    The  look  of  pale,  shrinking 
fear  of  him,  with  which  her  darling  clung  to  her,  just  at 
the  partmg,  haunts  her-will  haunt  her  night  and  dav 
until  they  meet  again.    Is  she  afraid  of  Vane  Valentine  ? 
Uh!   my  dearest,  my  sweçtest  !"  the  poor  old  lins 
murmur  in  the  darkness,  «if  I  had  you  back-all  my 
own  once  more-^no  man  should  take  you  from  me 
unlcss  you  went  with  a  glad  and  willing  heart."    And 
then  there  rises  before  her  a  m^n's  face-a  dark,  délicate 
head,  a  grave  smile,  deep,  çerfous  brown  eyes,  a  slender. 

TKTaCè  unîike^îrr  Vnn«»'c  a  «♦♦:„ *_  .     ," 


^r-^^°'  "-?.^";-^"'^*^""^'^^^v^^^^tiuxprow,auoggthej- 
nn^t  unîike^r  Vane's,  a  fitting  mate,  even  in  ^utyT 
for  the  golden-haired  heiress.  ^ 


'.i-f^fW.^^ 


THAT   ARE    NOT    STEERED.^^  3,3 

would  hâve  Wa  happy     A„d  fZ^^^l  '"  ^^"'  ^^'^ 
near  me  always-auJIv^f     wk       "'^^^  ^^^«  M  her 

dare  to  be  unkind  to  her     No      .hw  ^      •  .'^'"  """^ 
fhereistoomuchatstake"  '       ^  ^''''"°'  ^'  '^«"' 

-nothingness.  stnking  together,  and  then 

'         „      ■  ■  •  •  c  .     ■ 

"Clear  the  way  !  let  me  throueh  i"  cries  n..f  «n  î      ■ 

Overhead  there  U  the  bS  wî„H  t       f  Campagna. 

won,e„  and  ohiw;.;  .eS,Turt  Jlk""f  1'^"' 
screaming-corifusion  dire  eveCheré  ThL  t  *'• 
safelv  out  ar..  frv-i„„  .  o'ïrywnere.  Ihosewhoare 
ci;r  OUI  are  trjmg  to  extricate  those  whn  or.  .,!ii 
pnsoners,  foremost  amonp  then,  .M»  7  ii  !^  '    ' 

^:^:-^.^^^^^^^- 


;r 


ïp,. 


"  j>  ^  ti 


}#!«.;. 

•"*«. 


* 


-*    ^ 


lV, 


■  14- 


m- 


f 


■* 


-f^- 


i^^  ''FORTUNE  BRINGS  m' SOME  BOATS 
.      up  through  tbe  mists  of  what^he  thinks  death,  and  tries 

tbat  is  beuding  over  her  mistress. 

^r^X^^^^^^^^^  itwasthevoieeof  ./owa 

He  ir.with  her  in  a  moment,  holding  her  in  his  arms." 

îît^        ^/  ^^^  °^^  ^"«°d  !"  is  what  he  says.  . 
Geo™!T^H^^^''   Master  George  !  my  own  Master 
George!     «as  the  great  day  corne,  then,  and  the  sea 
given  up  U,  dead,  ihat  I  see  and  hear  ybu  this  nightV 

knoJ^"?;^!,  i"""^~"°-  ï  "«^e^^as  drowi^d,  you 
knowr.  It-Ms  been  a  mistake  âU  thèse  years-it  is  Geoi^ee 
Va  entm^  ih  the  flesh.  Do  not  talk  now-lie  tUl-we 
w,ll  tak^  care  of  you.  I  mu^st  go  back  to  m^  mother." 
JMy/dcar  n\istress  I  i«  she  much  hurt  ?" 
«Vety  much,  I  fear;  she  is  senseless.  Take  this 
stimulait;,  andkeep  quiet  You  are  not  going  to  di^ 
do  not  think  it."  ^    ^ 

But  l^rs.  Tinker  only  groans  and  shuts  her  eyes.  She 
is  bruised  and  broken,  and  crùshed,  and  hurt,  but  no 
bones  are  broken,  and  her  injuries  are  not  serions.  She 
is  so  stunned  and  bewildered  with  fright  and  pain  that 
she  can  hardly  wonder  or  rejoice  tf  fibd  her  Masïer  ' 
George  after  ail  thèse  years  alive. 

r..3^  f '^'v^'u  '  *^^'  »"^«stigat^ion,  turns  ont  to  be  com- 

ail  are  badly  scared.     Madam^Valentiqe  appears  to  be 
the  onJy  one  seriously  injured.    That  she  />  seriou^y 

rivif  ,    Tf*"  ïf  "°  question.    She  lies,  while  they 

travel  slowly  into  Rome,  in  her  son's  arms,  without  signs 

of  life.    They.reach  the  great  city,  and  she  is  driVen 

sWly  through  the  streets  to  the  Cai  Valentine  bu    aU 

jhejyhjlg^e^iiea^^lifce^P^^^^^    Mrs.  Tîoker  s<^^-l 

.«covered  already  as  to  hp  able  tô  sit  up.  chafes  W 
bands.  and  cries  anrf  m^^a».  ^..il*.  .^  i *;, 


j'. 


k««yi..       J      .    '    —  -"  -»-  «^'•v.  iv/  Bit  up.  cnaies  ner 
tuwas,  and  çnç»  and  moan»  dulljr  to  bwseU,  andlUt«|w 


,___-»', 


,  *- 


'^'^y  /  '^'î^faP*^"^ -^ 


,>  ■'I*- 


'X' 


TUAT   ARE    I^OT    STEERED.^ 


i 


315 


nately  watches   Master  George.    «Grown  such  a  fine 
%ure  of  a  man,  God  bless  kiraV  she  thinks  admir! 

Anselrtio  the  major-domo,  awaits  them  ;  thç  rooms 
are  warm,  beds  are  aired.  ail  is  in  order.  Madame 
undres.ed  and  put  to  bed,  the  best  médical  ski^ln  Rpme 
is  summoned,  and  when  the  sun  is  two  orthreeSs 
h^h,  she  opens  her  eyes  and  moans  feebly,and  struggies 
back  painful  y  out  df  that  dim  land  of  torpor,  wherf  she 
has  lain  so  long.  Struggles  back  to  life,  aSdT,aîn  aÎd 
weanness.  and  a  sensé  of  stifling  oppression  thatTl'l  not 

sielill  r      fT'"^'  ^"^  '^^  day  is  now  far  spenO^ 

agam.     Mrs.  Tinker  sits  by  her  side-it  is  on  that  teaB^ 

wet  face  her  eyesfirst  fall.    A  glint  of  sunshine  si  slï^ 

between  the  closed  jalousies-if  turns  the  rose  sUk  cU" 

ra.ns  to  flame,  and  bathes  in  a  ruby  gloW  the  marblefrce 

of  the  figure,  "At  the  Shrine."    Her  eyes  leave  Mrf 

Tinker,  and  rest  on  that  ^  ^««ve  mrs., 

"  My  darling  !"  she  whispers,  «  never  agaîn-never  la 

th,s  world  again."    For  she  knows  the  truth.    She  is 

quite  calm,  and  a  sort  of  smile  dawns  on  her  lips.  as  she 

look^  at  the  weeping  servant  by  her  side  ^ 

lastofm/^ff  ""u    {"^°^''>«  ^y^  "you  will  sec  the 
last  of  me,  after  ail.   I  used  t^  wonder  sometimes,  Tinker 
which  of  us  woujd  go  first."  ' 

ant'sfbl'*^'^  °''"'^'''  ""^  ^'^^'"  °'^'^*''  '"  ^^  °ïd  serv- 

^  "A  hard  mijtress,  I  am  afraid,  sometimes-an  impe- 
nous  mistress."    She  sighs.  glances  at  the  statue,  X 

before  I  die,"  she  says,  "  I  liked  him."  ^        " 


k 

3"  -   , 


/      >'•■ 


•I 


rj 


itj 


fis  i-Tio«-3»'  '    ^^* 


mâdë  that? 

'   r7V  'J^^^  ^^^  ^'''"'  Tinker,  will  you  ?    Tell  me  "—a 
painful  effort-" how  long-how  long  do  th^^ed^torî 


<J' 


I' 


^ 


'%':■ 


i*  ,^^ 


-.V'V' 


3x4   ''^OJ^TCrj^^j,^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 


I  see  them  in  consultation  Jn   the 


room 


give  me? 
beyônd." 

not"lonJ-!^,^,t':„f ''''"'L'  ^^^^"^  ^î^dly,  «not  lo, 
AiuKer,     till  to-morrow,  maybe."  «^y^rs. 

Oh,  praise  and  thanks  hl     v  f ^     J^     ^^^^'  mistress  I 
I  killed  you  r  ^""S*""  "  ""  y°»  'Jy-'g  '    Hâve 

'f  ""'^-'h,  butadeath-likesloon  "^  *°  "*  '"""'^ 

kiUei  Zl-ZT"'olrT  '  '""^  ""'  =""'  '"«  '"-k 
cornes  toagaln  The  sW  f"**  ^"..^"^y-  '>«f"«  ^^e 
for  sure."  ^'"  °'  T"  ""'  ''"'  ''*'■  °>«"g''t 

Mother!"      "■       ^'"'^'^     »»   you    not    know    met 
J'ZtXJt^î'  r  ^'î'"'  "-"  "y  •  g«»t  effort, 

»id^d';i«i  g^es  ,hli  ha™  rr'  ""*'  «  ""  "'* 

fearf ul  wonder-nô  .^Ty  "°  "  ^^^  ""'^  "■'«-'■■. 


"<»r  mother,"  he  Icisses  the  other  i,.,.^  i  • 
«.e  quilt,  -are  you  aot  a  Htt.e  ^L'^Uo^rl'Tl 


on 


ttle  glad.    I  love  you,  mother, 


'■',1*.    ?-K-  '•    '/  '     I' 


■■■.  *' 


f«»  *it  f    *- 


tio^it..      rJi    s^ 


5^1^' 


■V 


A'^'i^!' 


r( 


T-^^r   AXS    NOT    STEESED."  3,, 

say  them  uow."  ^       ^  ^^^  ^^  ^^»*  you 

exile  ail  thèse  vear«  7„i     n    ?         *  wanderer  and  an 

it  is  death  ,h,.  .**'""»  «of  «he  sight  of  your  (ace.  If 
l^^Uer'tha' 1  e'  X^nr:^  X-u.to  mj..^  ,^-,  [f 
iorgive  mr    H.  h*  ?^  """  '  ""^^  "»«.  »»<!  «y  j,«, 

on  ZsX  ■  "  oa„°ir  n^"*  ^'"'^  "'■"•  -«l  h-  'earf  f^U 
.0  go.  whilewebt"  God  Ti.of!ur  =  "'0"  ">em  ail 
and  is  aliv.  again.  was  Ct  and  îs  (oJnd"^-  ""  "'^  <*-" 

fods;He;u:e:uï:n?eTrrMXof'^^^^^^^^ 

side^n„o^dH:ro,tAr„t;:rd^^^^ 
»>»  i^you'^^"rs:;i^'°y7  ^-  - ---«^-r.tà 

veg  near  now.  she  is  fittedSr  -^^-   "  •     ^    ^"^  '^"'" 


«"'♦i^ 


PO  new  ahocka    And 


■;iïn.-M. 


c^s.' 


-< 


A' 


V 


•  \.  f^' 


"1  j» 


318    ^' I^ORTUNE  SEINGS  IN  SOME  BOATS 


What  does  it  matter.    Let 


"Donotthinkof  it  now. 

"It  does  matter.    It  shall  not  go/ Ri^ht  il  riirht  •• 

eyes,nngsinherfeeblevoice.  "You  are  th^  Lonet 
nqt  he.  You  must  claim  your  right,  George.  Aornise 
me you  will  when  I  a*n  gone.A'  i.-^ 

"  Mother,  is  it  ^orth  while -"  îl 

"It  «  worth  while-a  thousand  times  wortS'Vhile 
Right  is  right,  I  say.  He  is  a  just  man  witb'all  his 
faults;  he  will  ackno^ledge  your  superior  right.  He 
has  no  shadow  of  claim  on  tfce  title  while  you  live.    Arid 

It  must  be  so,  George— promise  me."  ,  ^       \ 

"Mother r  V»,,  \ 

fa„l7t'h°'"''\'"^''^^  ^"^  '°  die  contfe; /Through  myV 
fouit,  through  my  cruelty,  you  hâve  lost  both  title  and 
fortune.     Let  me  do  what  I  cari  to  repair  it     Before 
hose  doctors  in  the  next  room,  before'^my  lawy^  ^y 
servants,  I  hâve  already  acknoi^Sèdged  you  ;  pr^mLe  me 
you  wUl  make  the  world  ackné^ledge  you,  ^h^at  yTwTu 
résume  your  rightful  name  and  rafk.'your  placTinT^ 
wor  d.     Promise  me  before  I  die.     You  cannot  refuse 
the  last  request  of  a  dying  mother." 

No-he  cannot,  but  he  looks  infinitely  disturbed  as 
he  reluctantly  gi ves  the  pledge.  «  I  promise-to  let  Do! 
lores  know,"  is  what  he  slowly  says 

nesinlTto'thif  '"  '^  '''^''  ^^^^"^""^  ^'°  '^^^e  ear- 
nestness  to  the  two  silent  witnesses  of  the  scene-Mrs 

Tinker  kneehng  beside  her,  René  Macdonald,  standing 

ReneV   Yon      Mr^"'"     "  ^""  ^^^  Hstening.  Monsieuf 
René?    You  will    witness   for  me  that  he  keeps  his 

friend-I  commission  you  to  tell  her  this.     She  will  do 
what  is,  nght  I  know-^it  is  a  heart  of  gold     And  it  is 


love  her  very  much,  Georgs^  and  care  for  her  ?    Ûo  not 


'^   /t 


^i 


^iv 


\^ 


'*  '. 


.1 


■V-  '.- 


'  si/k, 


^ 


« 


u 


fwher's  sake."  '^         ""°*  '""^  *  ^'"«  fo'  hcr 

end  "       ■  ,  °°  °°'  K°  »way.  s»/  hère  with  me  uwime  _  • 
I  am  not  going,  mother-it  is  René." 

not,iike  it     Ye^  she  liked-you  Slt."     "^"^^  '  ""  ''°''^'' 

.  They  watch  by  the  bedside  durine  the  ln>.c.    d       - 
hours  of  the  aftern^^^n       ou       ""|"'S   ine  loTig,  slow^ 

han\  aL?„teHS„ult^^;^Sne?^^^^ 
everybreath.    And  so  death  finds  B^f^h/n  -7         °*^ 

in  the  pearlv  haze  nf  f»n'  u.  S^^/^     ^'"^'^  ^"^^^  «"t 
^^^^    peariy  ûaze  of  twilight,  Katherine  Valentine  lies 


^W 


r:^^ 


v>l»" 


^^  M 


X' 


-■%• 


■■-X 
tM 


:A 


^v 


|ao 


ZA^ 


CîlFIAPTÉà^XVIII        ,       s 

«conced  in  a  great  carved  and  .^H°;i^' J"'^'"'''^'  «• 

.   «?«  smoke  or  his  Gigar     Bmh  m"  °"'"  making.:. 

.    «bsorbed  ta  bis  clay  4â  f h^    m  "  '"'"'-  '^e  younger 
week  ^  p^,  sfn^nkf  „tt,  "J"'  '"-^'^    A    - 
Valentme  leaves  off  staring  «  th^!'  „'^''*f""y  «eoi^e 
Jus  attention  to  tl,e  artist  SiM  K     •.^*"?''  '°&  «"^  turns 

i-g  h«  wet  Cay.  and^aiU^'^^hf  """''^  '"  T'''"- 

»o.  struclt  hi„  hi  heno  îhat  k^'-  •^*'"""°«'-  «  '  "^ 
gethertoowo™  and  S'iow  IveH  T"".»  '"^'«'  '»  ""o- 
years.  and  that  he  bas  wT  m  ?'  !*"  "-»'«"■  <>'  his 
used  to*e.     "  What  is  uZC^f '^""™  'han  be  ever 

"I  say  vou  a„  ->.  °      ,y'    ««oeasks. 
Fortbep!:,t'^:rx^:*;^^;  ''"»-•'  ^"y,  ,„ok  bere. 

you.  I  start  up.  lik^thé  faL  Z    S'".  "  ■""''  ««»•  *<> 
ft  "11.  but  «.mebody  else    not  p^T^J"'^™"'».  "o'  "yself 


1- 


'fir '"■*?■'' 


^1 


4 


.  3ai 

idcntity,  and    yoi*  accent  tu^ 

question  or  comment     oLî.     "^'««^orphosis  without 

theo,  we  hâve  met  daily    sti/r:  7*^''^  '^^^^  «°»«  «^"ce 

good  breèding-l  dôn't  kn?,  *^  ^^^'^^''ence.  it  may  be 
itisqueevtoVttjLst."^^"^^^^^ 

,      ,    "^' 'S  goodbreedW'savs  t?<.n*.  iy    u.      " 

always  been  taught  Éhat  i?Ts  ^f"?;.^^"^^'»»."»-    "I  hâve 

l-inful   recollecûonrperll  '    "Tou'r  ^°"' --^*-- 
you  saw  fit,  yo«  would  tell  m^     iJ      .-^"^^  '"^  '  ^^en 
'      "Meantime,  absorbed  in         ^«^"^'ûie-^" 

You  roolç  hipped    mv  lad  l.  -f .      °'^  ''^  ^'^e*-  ««en. 

enough..  IVe  watched  'u  N^  '".'  ^^"  "^"^  ^^* 
thin  as  a  shadow.  No  Ch  of  R  "^"'7°"  «^°^  « 
my  boy?"  '^^'^  °^  Roman  fever,  I  trust, 

'^  '  "  ell — who   Irnrtnro  a     ti. 

Roman  fever.     yes°l„L      "*."*  'o  ■"?•>/ «nds  of 
it  hère  in  Rome.    Neve?mt,H        5     '  «rtainly  eauÇ^t 

1  II  pull  thriugh  au  right     Tel/mi  ^'     ""  """"eh  I  be. 
Vou  give  ml  crédit  fef  jL  InV!     !  °  y<»>'«lf,  /r«  r/fer. 

thàtisnotthewordeirer  ^o,.    "  °'  '^''''«ity-though 
b«  a  roman^ic  one      Isll  J^''y'»":»'°'y-    Itshould 

ordinaor  ,„  me-a  LTwi^  l  ??  "  "'."'  ""  »'  «he 
tauch  surprisea  to  S  I,?         '""^-     **<>;  '  ««  not 

«.e  wSrTt":::-'::  rr  ""!:  '"  ■"»  «-«-r  «^ 


smokes,  JÉ^ene  pluno-r,  m!  ?  ^'    ^^^re  is-silence  ;  he 


^T^fÉ'    ^  iitt|fi-^^*i'^ft 


;** 


333 


i 


"//V'    ffIS    DREAMS."* 


\\. 


> 


thoughts  are  drifting  backward  to  that  other  life,  that 
seems  now  like  a  life  lived  in  a  dream. 

"  What  a  little  forever  it  is  to  look  back  upon  !  "  he 
says,  "and  yet  like  yesterda^,  too.  That  oLd  time  at 
'""Hwonto,  when  I  led  thé  luxurious,  idie  life  of  a  youth-  - 
fui  prince,  as  spoiled,  as  flattered,  as  headstrong,  as  self- 
indulgent  as  a^ny  prince— how  it  coiiies  back  as  I  sit 
hère,  and  I  am  no  longer  the  George  Valentine  of  forty 
years— battered,  world-worn,  gray— but  the  lad  George, 
who  rode  and  danced,  and  dreamed,  and  thought  life  a 
perpétuai  boy's  holiday,  and  who  fell  in  love  at  nineteen 
with  a  trapéziste,  and  ran  away  with  her  and  married 
her." 

Half  to  himself,  in  the  tone  of  one  who^muses  aloud, 
half  to  René,  who  listens  and  works  in  syiïipathetic  si- 
lence, he  tells  the  story-^lhe  story  of  the  one  brief  love 
idyl  of  his  life,  "  I  èamé  back  to  ray  sensés  more  quick- 
ly  thani-I  lost  them,"ihe  says,  "ks  I  suppose  most  . 
people  do  who  make  uiiequal  nlarriakes.  I  had  simply 
made  utter  wreck  and  ruîn  of  my  life.  She  is  dead,  poor 
^ul,  this  many  a  day— ^he  wàs  Snowbàll's  mother.  I 
\iç|ll  say  nothing  abouti  her  that  I  canXleave  unsaid. 
Dnly— rwhen  I  left  her,  after  ten  mpnths  of  marriage — 
you  may  believemewhenll  say  I  was  justifiéd  in  doing 
it  She  j^as  not  in  love  with  me.  •!  found  />iâh(^out  soon 
enough  ;  she  was  not  of  ithe  women  who  fall\n  lov^ 
She  was  so  utterly  wrap^ed  jup  in  herself,  she^bad  nQ 

„room  in  her  poor  little  stapred  heart  for  any  other  hhman 
créature.    Perhaps^he  may  hâve  been  fond  of  her  cHild, 

,   but  I  doubt  it."  \ 

"You  left  her  after  ten  ijnonths,"  René  repeats.  Some- 
thing  in  the  statement  seeni^s  to  fit  badly  with  some  other 
fact  in  his  m^nd.  He  regards  his  friend  with  a  puzzlqd 
look. 


for  our  inutual  benefit.  ^I  never  s-xw  her  again  uotU:!^ 


1     i 


/■ 


n 


\     ' 


^. 


* 


r 


■i 


''IN    ffIS    D^BAMS.» 


■M". 


3'3 

!  saw  her  fall  frôm  thé  slack-rope  in  Badger's  circus,  one 
oay  some  six  years  after." 

«  Six  years  aftef."  again  repeats  René,  the  puzzled 
look  deepenmg  in  his  face.  «And  Snowbail  was  but 
three  years  old  then  I"  -  : 

.    .     "  Precisely.    It's  a  deuce  of  a  business.    René " 

"Well?" 

**  Snowbail  is  not  my  daughter." 

A  stunned  pause.  And  yet-Rene  could  not  tell  you 
Why—the  shock  oï  astonisiiment  is  not  so  great  as  it 
ought  to  be.  "I  thôught  you  would  say  that,"  he  says. 
ma  hushed  tone.  f  And  your  mother-we  ail,  she  her! 
self,  her  husband— hâve  been  deceived." 

"  Ifs  a  bad  business,  old  fellow,  I  don't  deny,  and  ail 
owing  to  the  false  report  of  my  death.     By  tlie  merest 
accident-a  slip  on  the  ice,  à  sprained  ankle-I  did  not 
sail  in  the  fatal  Belle  O'Brien.    Another  man  took  mr 
placera  poorer  devil  even  than  myself--so  poor  that  to 
keep  him  frora  freezing  to  death  that    bitter  winter 
weather  I  shared  my  scanty  wardrobe  with  him.  ,  He. 
George  Valentine,  as  his  clothes  led  ail  to  think,  pe^ 
ished  that  stoï-my  night,  and  the  Paul  Farrar  who  1  ved 
and  had  a  hard  fight  with  fortune  for  many  a  year  Uas  a 
castaway  about  whom  no  one  was  likely  to  be  concerned.r 
Idid  not^knowl  was  forgiven.     I  only  knew.another 

heir  had  been  found  for  the  great^Vilentii'e  fortune.    I    ' 
did  not  know  Mimi  ihy  wife,  ^^^ried  4gain,  in  good 
faith  enough,  Tom  Randal.    I  llfe^aged  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  fight  for  bread  in  those  ea#  Tdays.     When  I  did 
know,  it  was  toc  late.    I  càiiiW  to  Clangville,  honestly 
resolute  to  see  my  mother,  aJDd  ibtain  her  pardon.    Time 
xmght  hdve  softeped  her,  I  thcught,  and  condoned  my 
offense.  It  was  an  extraordinaryihing  that  Mimi,  my  wife 
-r^Iom  RandoTa^^widow,  tf^you  like-^^-^^shôuld  be  therear- 
thç  same  time.    There  she  was,  with  little  Snowbail,  and 
I  soon  discoveted,  from  Vane  Valentine,  that  hcknew  ail 
about  her  (exccpt  the.fact  of  her  second  marriage  •  tAaf 


ii\ir^û^' 


k. 


rio'ïU.  ïa^^  *i 


J* 
^.»^ 


èfB 


\ 


3U 


IN    HIS    DREAMSP 


very  few  people  ever  kriew)  ;  that  she  had  visîted  my 
mother,  and  thrçatened  to  make  public  her  marriage  vvith 
me,  unless  bought  oflf.     Vane  Valentine  only  knevv  me 
as  Paul  Farrar,  of  course.     I  had  met  bim  at  FayaLsome 
time  before.     A  new  thoûght  struck  me.     Without  pre- 
senting  myself  in  person  I  could  judge  of  my  mother's 
feeling  toward  me  by  her  conduct  toward  the  child  sup- 
posed  to  be  mine.     If,  after  Mimi's  tragical  fate,  she 
showed  pity  for  the  child,  I  wcAild  havé  corne  forward  at 
once,  and  revealed  myself.    I  longed  for  her  forgivèness, 
René  ;  I  longed  to  be  back  in  -the  world  of  living  men, 
from  which  for  years  I  had  seemed  to  be  thrust  out  ;  I 
longed  to  be  once  more  my  mother's  son.     One  kindly 
womanl#  act  toward  the  child— I  would  hâve  asked  no 
more— I  would  hâve  come  forward,  pleaded  for  pardon, 
and  striven  in  the  future  to  repair  the  past    But  that  act  fc 
'    never  came.    The  child— unseen,  uncared  for,  as  though 
she  were  a  dog  or  a  pet  bird  of  the  dead  woman's— was 
banished,  and  given  over  to  the  hands  of  strangers.    She 
thought  her  her  grandchild,  and  still  banishered  her  un- 
-  seen.     Perhaps  it  was  the  doing  of  Vane  Valentine— 
Hcaven  knows  !    It  suflBced  to  kill  my  last  hope  forever. 
The  heart  that  could  be  so  hard  to  the  child  was  not 
^likely  to  soften  to  the  father. 

"  I  acçepted  the  décision  in  sileiice  and  wcnt  my  way, 

takinçj  thelittle  one  with  me.    Of  course  I  fell  in  love 

with  the  child  at  sight— every  one  did  that.    She  was  the 

*;most  bewitching  baby  in  the  world  ;  but  you  remember 

her,  no  doubt.  .  You  know  my  life  since  then,  the  life 

of  a.wandereralways.    But  for  the  accident  that  night 

on  which  we  met  there  never  would  hâve  been  either 

reconciliation  or  forgivèness.    I  had  made  up  my  miûd 

you  sec,  after  the  épisode  of  Snowball,  that  there  was  no 

°oPf/Qr"^-    fut  it  bas  been  decreedotherwise.    Mypoor 

-mother  1  hersrn^as  a  lonèly  lîfe.    SHë  wraïpped  hcrsefi  in 

silence  and  pride,  and  shut  out  the  world.    Can  a  mother 

«oi^et  her  child  ?    On  her  death-bed  she  told  me  I  hiA 


f\'-  "' 


■Su' 


w 


^ 


j-i  Mj..; 


-■'I 


"IN    ffIS    DREAMS» 


325 


\ 


been  forgiven  always.     It  will  comfort  me  when  I  am 
on  mine  to  remember  that." 

René  stands  silent.  After  a  pause  George  Valentine 
goes  on  :  "  Perhaps  there,  just  at  the  last,  I  should  hâve 
told  my  mother  the  truth.  I  think  I  would,  but  that  I 
knew  the  explanation  would  be  toogreat  a  shoçk  for  her 
to  bear.  And  she  loved  the  girl  so  dearly,  as  Ftio,  as  you, 
as  we  ail  do.  Dear  little  Snowball  !  what  does  it  matter? 
If  she  were  my  daughter  in  reality  I  could  never  be  fonder 
of  herthan  I  am." 

"It  matters  a  great  deal,"  René  answers,  "and  so 
Vane  Valentine  will  think,  and  say,  when  he  hear»  it 
It  robs  him  at  a  word  of  title  and  fortune.  How  do  you 
think  he  will  take  that  ?" 

"  He  had  botter  take  it  quietly,  or  it  may  be  worse  for 
him.  If  he  is  harsh  to  that  child  he  shall  rue  it.  And 
you,  too,  my  friend— you  hâve  become  involved  in  this 
famity  tangle.  It  will  devolve  upon  you,  I  suppose,  as 
you  hâve  already  promised,  to  go  and  tell  Snowball.  I 
wish — I  wish  my  mother  had  not  insisted  upon  that 
The  exposéy  if  it  must  corne,  will  be  the  deuce  and  ail  to 
stand," 

"  Right  is  right,"  says  René. 

"  To  be  sure  ;  but  if  a  man  prefers  the  wrong  ?  Sup- 
posing  he  is  the  only  one  to  suffer  ?  It  is  rather  a  nui- 
sance, isn't  it,  to  be  forced  into  a  court  of  appeal,  whether 
or  no  ?  Look  hère,  René,  Vane  Valentine  will  not  resiga 
what  he  has  waited  for  so  long,  gotten  so  bardly,  without 
fighting  it  out  to  the  bitter  end.  Do  you  know  what  that 
means  for  me  ?    It  means  taking  the  whote  world  into 

.  my  confidence— telling  it  what  a  confounded  ass  I  hâve 
been,  ail  my  life,— seeing  my  name,  and  hers^  and  my 
ttiother's  in  glaring  capitals  in  every  English  and  Amer- 

JàgLPÇyspaper  I  piçk  jip.    Do  jrou  knpw  what  it  meana 


tôt,  Snowball  ?  The  exposure  of  her  birth,  as  the  daugh- 
ier  qi  a  lawless  circus  woman — an  heirèss  under  false 
pretenses — a  wife  whom  Vane  Valentine  no  more  would 


\ 


À 


x._. 


,*î 


■î'-dk    : 


"      --Ml 


V,. 


-r"' 


^^^ 


l^' 


326 


''IN    HIS    DREAMS,^ 


*■  r 


^ve   married,    tnowing    the    truth  than Good 

r7„°     .  ^!,''*'  -f  °''''  ■^°"  '<="'«'  ""'"S '^  impossible  -^ 
^     Ren«  stands  silent.    Right  is  rieht— v«s  but  to  hoM 

r.ght  sornettes  requires  a  courage  superhuman. 

It  will  break  her  heart,  it  will  braad  her  wi(h 
mfamy,  «  will  blight  her  life,  it  wHl  compel  her  oTâ  e 
an  exposure,  for  which  a  crowa  and  a  kingdom  wouW 

hke,  s.nce  the  promise  was  extorted  on  a  death-bed  but 

twT  ^î^  u  ^  ""  "^^  °«°"  "od  Tichborne  affair 
this,  with  the  same  ultimate  ending,  no  doubt     It  is  a 

thousand  pitiés  it  must  be  told  at  5l-it  rUinake  d.» 
ch.ld  misérable  ail  her  life.    René,  «.^it  be  told  r    * 

miserablt°"l.^  ^'  "r  '  ''*™  P™""^"».  Better  be 
misérable  knowing  the  truth,  than  happy  in  a  fool'a 
paradise  of  ignorance."  ,  FF/ m  a  lools 

donhffhr'' '!?'*'"'*  •'  Ah  !  poor  little  Snowball  !  I 
doubt  the  parad.se,  even  a  fool-s,  with  Vane  Valentin,: 
.  If  he  is  unkmd  to  her-M«,  Re„e,  I  wiu  face  ail  M^ 
and  hâve  it  ont  with  hin,.  iet  him  look  to  it  i  hê  U 
Wsh  with  her.    Corne  what.may,  I  sha(l  nol  s^^,  ., 

and  fcmtted  brows,  stanng  moodily  out  at  the  làle  flood 
of  n.oon.n.ys  silverinp:  the  stûne  court     Geor«  Vale^ 
f^e  Im  nsen  too,  anlls  pacing  „p  and  down.*^ 
.h^     tk"     ««"^°':  y°»«elt,"  he  says,  "when  you  go 

r>nd  tell  her.    For  myself.  I  shall  remain  in  R^me  tlS 

of  letters,  whether  or  no  she  is  happy.    I  seem  to  hâve  a 
«Mtof jpresentimenf  about  it, that-»he-i,  not-that IS» 

He  has  the  soûl  of  a.miser,  graspin^f,  sordid,  cn»l  j  ^ 


u/" 


u- 


t'^1 


if 


-      **IJ\r    IfIS    DREAMSP 


h 


zn 


he  was  in  love  with  another  woman,  a  cousin.  Snowball 
never  cared  for  him,  I  feel  sure.  How  could  she  ?— old, 
cold,  self-centered,  unfitted  fôr  her  in  every  way.  Dear 
little  Snowball  !  so  fresh,  so  bright,  so  joyous— how 
soonhewill  change  ail  that  !  It  is'a  pity,  a  thousand 
pitiés,  mon  ami,  that  yc^u "  / 

"  For,  Heaven's  sake,  hush  !"  René  Macdonald  cries 
out,  iSercely.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  made  of  this  ?"  strik- 
ing  passionately  the  marble  agâinst  which  he  stands— 
"^hat  I  oan  listen  to  you?  Do  you  think  thère  is  ever 
an  hpur,  sleepîng  or  waking,  in  which  she  is  absept  from 
me  ?  I  try  to  f orget  someti  mes — I  force  myself  to  forget; 
lest  in  much  thinking  of  what  might  hâve  been  but  for 
this  fortune  and  that  man,  I  should  go  inad," 

Gteorge  Valentine  lays  his  hapd  on  his  shoulder,  and 
stands  beside  hîm — mute.  Something  of  this  he  has  sus- 
pected.  How  could  it  be  otjierwise  ?  But  he  speaks  no 
Word.  The  voice  that  breaks  tlie  silence  is  the'voice  of 
a  giri  singing,  to  a  piano,  in  the  apàrtment  above.  An 
English  family  hâve  that  second  floor.  The  voice  of  the 
girl,  singing  an  English  song,  comesto  tliem  though  the 
open  Windows,  through  the  slumbering  sweetness  of  the 
night    -  « 

**  In  the  daytime  thy  voice  shall  go  thrtugh  htm. 
In  ^  dfeams  he  shall  see  thee,  and  ache, 
\  '        .  T]bou  shalt  kindle  by  night,  and  subdue  him 

Asleep  or  awake."  • 

,    "If  you  would  rather  not  go,"  Geoi^e  Valentine 

says,  at  last,  "it  may  be  too  hard  for  you " 

"I  wiil  go,"  René  answers,  between  his  teeth;  «I 
mu«t  see  for  myselï.    If  he  makes  her  happv— well,  I  " 
Shall  try  and  be  thankful,  and  see  her  no  more^    If  he  is  • 
whafyoii  thirik  him— what  I  (hink  him— let  him  look  to 
it  I.   Sfty  no  more,  très  cher^  there  are  some  hurts  that 
will  not  bear^aadling  ;  ibié  18  ene  ef  thenb''        ^ 


•^ 


I   . 


'- ;  ^!  *-#*i%-';«^'^î%1^ 


S: 


■»     • 


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$»%> 


!       k' 


Jfy    i>ÀDY    V4L£;NtÏNB, 


PART   IV. 


û^èSBr^'^'^^-^^'^^ 


w 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

MY  LADY  VALENTINE. 


SPRING  evening—April  stars  beginning  to 
pierce  through  the  blue.one  by  one  ;  a  silvery 
haze  over  yonder  above  the  firs,  showing 

A  •  -^i  V^  '^®  °^°°^  ™®*"*  to  "se  presently. 
An  air  like  velvet,  a  soft  southerly  breeze  stirring  in  the 
elms  and  chestnuts,  and  bending  to  kiss  the  sweet  hidden 
violets  and  anémones  as  it  flutters  by.  Down  in  a  thom- 
bush  near  the  keeper's  gâte  a  nightingale  is  singiqg. 

breath  to  hear.     So,  too,  does  the  stout,  unromantic- 

and  waiting  and  rather.knxious,  but  charmed  as  well  by 
the  wpnderful  flow  of  bird-music.  ^ 

Anxiety,  however,  soon  gets  thè  better  zi  her  again 
and  she  pecrs  down  the  long  white  strip  of  wood,  l^nd- 
ing  her  ear  to  catch  the  sound  she  listens  for.    But  only 
Jhe  nightingaks  song  breaks  the  ^lyao  ^ttillaew^  t>f ^- 


•weet  spring  evening. 
^  "I^te  again,"  she  says  to  herself  ;  «I  guessed  she 


-I 


■>,.'i 


MV    ZADY    VALENTINM. 


in, 


f  the  poor  de^f  is  five  minutes  past  the  time.    I  wish 
the  cross  old  cât  was  furder— I  do."  ' 

She  glances  at'pprehensiVely  over  her  shouldei-  as  she 
^ys.t,  not  quité  sure  that  Miss  Dorothy  ValenUne  m'^ 
np  pounce  upon  her,  as  rapidly  and  soundles^sly  as  tje 
fel  ne  to  wh.ch  she  has  compared  her.     But  Jhe^  Jhd 

'    tre^sTndr'";.'°'''V'^  Thelofty 

trees  aod  broad  acres  of  the  park  spread  around  her  • 

down  hère  u  is  a  lonely  spot  yhere  even  Miss  Valehtine; 

the  gables  of  the  housç,  Mahor  Valentine,  sparklingaU 
,     along  its  somber  brick  front,  with  many  lighls  " 

Anni'  '\'  ^"  *'^'^'  old-fashioned  mansioq  of  Queen 
Anne  s  tune-once  red,  of  a  dull,  warmish-^rown  tint 
now,  that  contrasts  very  well  with  the  green  of  the  ivy 
that  overruns  most  of   it,  and  softens  and^ones  do^ 

ht!  f  ""  ?"";?''  ""^  '''  '''^  ^"^  ^°g"ï^r  outlines.  It 
has  pointed  pbles,  and  great  stacks  of  chimneys,  and 
•  quain  iy-tioibered  porches-in  summer  time,  very  bowers 
Drim  n  .T  ^°?  ^^««y«"-kle.  It  has  oid.fa^shJ.,ned! 
pnm  Dutch  gardens,  kept  at  présent  with  care,  but  left 

iTr'  'S  '*^'  '"^^  °'  '^«  ^^^«  ^--«^t>  and  ail  tt 
old-fashionea,  sweet-smelling  flowers  that  ever  bloome|. 

-  g^w  m  beauty  side  by  side.  And  bere  in  the  park  a^ 
magnificent  copper  beeches.  great  green  elms,  bmnching 
oaks,  andaworldof  femand  bracken  waving  below  ^ 

•  Hch;  ^^*Ç'"îr*^  ^'^'^  **^  untouched  timber  is  the  de- 
^S^y^^^'^^^^J^^y^lentine-^life.    Poor  as  Sir  Rup^rt 

^im^'\  i^ï^'t'^^"^^'"^"*  ^°^«  of  Valentine  ^re 
undesecrated  by  tte  axe.    He  Held  thèse  family  Dryads    • 
^cred,  and  left  them  in  theirlofty4,eauty  unfell  J.  F^lea 

l^Zf  *""*"!  ^^^  ^"'^'^  "°  *^°"^'  i*  is,  but  even  in  thèse 
..^^gJS^L  décadence,  Maûô^A?iy«ntintrw^1^^ 
tobeproud  of. ,  Its  présent  lord  ù  proud  of  it-of  e3^ 

<K»rtrB,t,  of  eveiy  tree  ia  the  ,stately  deraesne,  of  eveij  - 


w4 


i   y- 


V. 


^"^  il."        î 


S30 


M  Y    LAD  Y    VALENTÎNE, 


queer,  unfashionable  flower  in  the  Queen  Anne  gardens. 
Thèse  quaînt  gardens  shall  grow  and  flourish  undis- 
turbed  ;  he  has  decreed  it.  There  may  be  orchid  houses, 
and  an  acre  under  glass,  and  ferneriés  to  the  heait's  con- 
tent of  his  sister  and  cousin,  but  ail  else  shall  remain,  - 
a  standing  mémorial  of  by-gone  days,  and  dead  and 
buried  dames.  And  hère  in  ^Jie  park,  leaning  over  the 
gâte»  looking  at  the  moonrise  and  listening  to  the  nigbt- 
ingale,  stands  faithful  Jemima  Ann  waiting  for  her  sov- 
ereign  lady  to  come  home.  Something  of  the  frdelity  of  . 
a  dog,  of  the  wistfulness  of  adog's  eyes,  looks  out  of  hers 
as  she  stands,  with  her  face  ever  expectantly  turned  one 
way  ;  and  ail  the  loyalty,  ail  the  love  without  question 
and  vi^ithout  stint,  of  a  dog,  is  there. 

**  I  Vish  she  would  come,"  she  keeps  whispering-  to 
herself.  "  Miss  Valentine  will  jaw,  and  Sir  Vane  he'U 
scowl  blài^er'n  midnight,  and  that  there  dratted  Miss 
Routh,  slèeUl  sneer  and  say,  'Bogged  again?  Ah,  I 
thought  so  !'    and  laugh  that   nasty,  aggravatin'  littlé  P 

laugh  o*  her'n.  An'  scoldin',  an'  scowlin*,  an'  sneerin'  is 
what  my  precious  pet  never  was  used  to  before  she  wçot 
and  throwed  herself  away — worse  luck  ! — on  sich  as  hini.'* 
Ag^in  she  glancesback'apprehensively  over  her  shoulder. 
Miss  Valentine  has  an  uncomfortable  waj>8|  pouncing 
upon  her  victims  at  short  rangée,  at  inopportune  moments,  vxr 

and  in  the  most  unlikely  places.    Jemima  Ann  would  ; 

not  be  çurprised  to  see  her  gllde,  ghost-Iike,  out  from 
among  the   copper  beeches  down  there,  ail  grim  and  ^^ 

wrathful,  and  primed  with  rating  to  the  muzzle.  An  aus-  ^^^f 

tère  virgin  is  Mistress  Dorothy  Valemine,  even  with  her 
lamp  'l,well  trimmed  and  burning,"  and  the  household 
hère  at  the  Manoii^is  ruled  with  a  vestal  rod  of  iron.  f ^r 

A  stable  clockf^igh  up  in  a  breezy  turret  ampng  the 
troèa,  strikes  nine.    But  it  is  not  dark.  A  misty  twilig^t, 


thiwugh~wHcîi"fhe  môôn,  lîte  à  sil ver  shîp,  sails,  ^îlè^lBie 
green  world.  Jemima  Ann,  however,  hears,  and  anxiety 
tums  to  agony.    '^I  wisb — I  wish  she  wôuld  comei"  sbe 


V 


"1  r 


é1 


,i*iA 


\     ■  : 


V 


f  ''\  T 


Xi'*.   „  ¥•  i-Ç 


'■Yï  %■''-- 


*•>    r    *\t  r   "^'•' 


r 


h- 


MY   LAD  Y    VALENTINE. 


33X 


"  cries  out,  in  such  véhémence  of  désire,  that  the  Avîsh  seems 
to  bring  about  its  owq  fulfillment.  Afar  off,  cornes  tbe 
rapid  tread  of  horses'  hoofs  down  the  high  road,  and  in. 
a  moment,  dashing  ùp  tlie  bridle  path,  the  horse  and 
rider  she  looks  for  cornes.  She  bas  just  time  to  dart  back 
when  both  horse  and  rider  fly  ovçr  the  low  gâte,  then 
with  a  laugh  the  big  black  horse  is  pulled  dpwn  on  his 
hind  legs,  there  is  a  flourisl>  in  space  of  two  iron  front 
hoofs,"  then  the  rider,  still  laughing,  leans  pVer  to  where, 
under  the  trees,  Jemima  Arin  bas  sought  sanctuary. 

"  It  is  you,  Jemima  Ann,"  shé  says. 

"  Me,  Miss  Snowball,"  answers  a  panting  voice,  "  it's 
me.  I  thought  you'd  never  corne.  I  wish  you  would 
not  jump  over  gales,  Miss  Snowball.  You'll  kill  yourself 
yet.  I  déclare,  it  gives  me  sucha  turn  every  time  you  do 
it " 

The  young  lady  laughs  agaîn,  springs  lîghtly  down, 
and  with  the  bridle  over  her  arm,  gathers  up  her  long 
riding-habit  with  the  other  hand.  "  Bogged,  as  usual,  you 
see,  Jemima,"  she  says,  ruefully,  "  and  in  for  black  looks, 
as  usual,  if  I  am  caught.  \won*t  be  caught.  l'il  steal  up 
the  back  way,  and  into'yoùr  sanctum,  you  dear  old  solemn 
Jemima,  and  you  shâll  fetch  me.  down  an  evening  dress, 
and  I  will  repair  damages,  and  no  one  be  the  wiser. 
Hâve  you  bem^Wàiting  long  ?" 

"Nearjjp"^  hour,  Miss  Snowball.  It's  just  gone 
nme. 

"  Is  it  !  You  see  I  carry  no  watch,  and— ^"  glancing  up 
with  a  quick  look  of  aversion  at  the  house — "  I  am  nevet 
in  a  hurry  to  corne  back.  Hâve  I  been  missed  ?"  care- 
lessly. 

"  Yes,  Miss.  Miss  Valentine  asjked  me  where  you  was, 
and  looked  cross." 

**  It  is  Mba  Videptine's  «g/faUQ^-l^  my  Jc«^ 

mima.    Anyoneelse?" 


«I 


Well,"  reluctantly,  "Sir  Van< 
•*yes.    Sir  Vane— go  on." 


~^r.' 


Vi 


im 


■k 


UT*.'  > 


^' 


33a 


if  F   X^Z>r    VALENTINE. 


"  He  kînd  o*  cussed  like,  between  his  tecth  sorter, 
when  he  heerd  you'd  gone  without  the  groom.  He  said 
folks  hereabouts  would  think  he'd  upaud  married  a  wild 
Injun— always  a-gallopin'  bréak-neck  over  the  country, 
withoùt  so«much  as  a  servant.  He  said,"  hesitatingly, 
"  he'd  put  a  stop  to  sich  goin's  on,  or  know  the  reason. 
why." 

X  "  Ah  I"  slowly,  "  did  he  say  al  1  this  to  you  ?"  *' 

"  Kind  o'  to  me— kind  o'  to  himself.    But  I  allowed  he 
wanted  me  to  hear  it,  and  tell  you."  v 

"  Which  you  are  faithfully  doing,"  says   Sir   Vane'5 

wife,  with  a  laugh  that  has  rather  a  bitter  ring.     «  And 

Miss  Dorothy— was  she  drinkîng  in  ail  this  éloquence  ?" 

"She  was  thei».     Yes,  Miss  Snowball." 

"  And  Miss  Routh  ?— the  faraily  circle  would  not  be 

complète  wîthout  the  lovely  Camilla." 

"Miss  Camilla  was  in  the  drawing-room.  She  has 
Company— the  kirnal.  Don't  you  see  ail  the  front  Win- 
dows lit--and  hark  to  the  singing— that's  her  at  the 
pianner.  I  guess  that  was  why  Sir  Vane  was  put  out  at 
your  being  away— the  kirnal  came  promiscus  with  some 
other  officers,  and  it  made  him  mad  'cause  you  wan't  in  to 
dinner.  The  gentlemen  is  in  the  dining-room  yet,  drink- 
ingwine." 

"Officers— Miss  Routh's  friends— odd  thaHSir  Vane 
should  invite  them  to  dinnerr    How  many   are  there 
Jemima?"        *  \ 

"Three.  I  heerd  Miss  Routpcall  one  of  them  *my 
lord.'  If  you  dress  in  my  room,  Miss  Snowball,  what 
sball  I  bring  you  down  ?" 

^  "^  don't  care  a  iJin,  Jemima— it  does  not  matter 
With  the  beauteous  Cabtiilla  to  look  at,  my  most  ravish- 
ing  toilet  would  be  but  love's  labor  lost  Bring  down 
anything  you  chance  to  light  on— the  dress  I  wore  yes^ 
terday-  ior  instance.  lJurmsf,TarT^havè  misseï  my~^ 
dinner,  it  seems,  and  am  hungry,  you  shall  bring  me 
y  some  coffee  and  e^ickeii,  or  /«fe,  oj:  anything  good  r^)^ 

'    ^  t  " 


M 


'> 


M  Y  LAD  Y  Valent/ne,  333 

can  get — there  is  no  use  in  facing^  misfortune  starving. 
Lock  your  door,  and  admit  no  one  for  the  next  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  though  the  whole  Valentine  family 
should  besiege  it  in  force." 

She  takes  aside  entrance,  runs  Ughtîy  up  astair,  along 
a  dimiy-lit  passage,  and  into  the  small  sitting-room 
rcserved  for  the  use  of  my  lady's  maid — for  the  use  of 
my  lady  herself.  Often  enough  it  is  her  harbor  of  refuge 
in  troubled.times,  the  only  rpom  araong  the  many  the  big 
^house  contàins,  in  which  she  ever  feels  even  remotelv  "at 
home."  In  the  long  and  fréquent  hours  of  heart-sickness, 
%>nie-sickness,  disappbintment,  sharply  wounded  pride, 
bitter  regret,  she  cornes  hère,  and  with  ail  the  world  shut 
ôut,  bears  thé  bitterness  of  her  terrible 'Inistakç,  her  love- 
less  marriage,  in  silence  and  alone. 

It  is  but  a  small  room,  cozy  and  carp^eted,  and  there  • 
are  bôoks,  and  flowers,  and  pictures,  and  needle-work, 
and  the  few  relies  of  |he  old  life,  Dolores,  Lady  Valen- 
tine, has  brought  with  her  from  Rome.'  Itisall  the  cozier 
now>  for  the  wood  fire  that  bufrns  and  spàvkles  çhâferlly, 
and  the  little  rocking-chair  that  sways  invitingly  before 
it.  Miss  Dorothy  has  uplifted  voice,  and  hands,  and 
'  eyes  in  protest  against  so  iuxurious  a  chamber  being 
given  to%  waiting-maid,  but  though  Miss  Dorothy  is  the 
suprême  power  behind  the  throne,  and  mtslress  of  the 
Manor,  Sir  Vane's  young  wife  bas  showOvShe  càn  assert  ^ 
herself  when  shte  chooses. 

'^Jeni'ima  Ânn  is  my  friend.  You  understand,  Miss 
Valentine  ?  Something  moi'e  than  my  maid.  Her 
sitting-room — mine,  when  I  feel  like  it,  as  well — is  to  be 
pretty."  ^        .    , ^■ 

And  pretty  it  is.  As  a  rule,  Lady  Valentine  ïets  things 
go  ;  it  is  not  worth  while,  she  says,  wearity  ;  life  will  not 


wo»$h  4hc  iiviog  if  it-ia  to  1^  lived  in  a-perpet 
wrangle.  jLet  Miss jDorothy  do  as  she.pleases.  When 
one  has  made  diriteft  shipwreck  ôf  one's  life,  it  is  hardljr 
woith  the  troul;ire  of  quarreltng.over  the  flotsam  and  jet- 


1  . 


•  •fi 
'■■'m 


;f 


-■aa 


fe-? 


f^ 


♦.1 


J4     < 


334 


i 

MY   LAD  Y    VALENTINB, 


Bam.    And  Miss  Dorothy  dçes  do  as  she  pleases  wîth  a 
very  high  hand.     And  so  it  cornes  that  Sir  Vane's  bride 
Aies  liere  as  to  the  "shadowof.a  great  rock  in  a  weary 
land,"  oftener  and  more  often,  or  mounts  lier  black  horse 
and  Aies  over  the  hills  and  far  away,  out  of  reach  of 
Miss    Doro^hy's   rasping  tones.     Safe  in    this    harbor 
of  refuge,   Jemima  Ann   leaves  her    mistress,   locking 
the  door  after  her  according   to   orders,  and  goes  for 
the  coflfee  and  accompauiments.     Dolores  stands  by  the 
fire,|hAl(?ing  her  riding-whip   in   her  hand,  her  long, 
muddiedi habit  trailing  l^in^  her,  her  eyes  on  the  fire. 
She' hasji  thrown  oflb  her'  hat;  >nd  the  fire-shine  falls 
i^ill  upôn  her,  standings  quite  4till,  and  very  thought- 
ful  hère.     Look  ae  her.    It  is  seven  jponths  since  her 
wedding  dày— a^many  years  rilight  hâve  passed,  >nd  not 
wrought  so  striking  a  change  in  her.     She  looks  taller 
than  of  old,  and|  it  seems,  even  more  slender,  but  that 
may  be  due  to  the  long,  tightly-fitting  habit.    Her  face 
b  certainly  thinner,  with  an  expression  of  dignity  and 
gravi^3Ç.thaÉ  it  nevèr^used  to  wear.    AU  thé  old  spark- 
liûg^Cçhild-like  brightness  is  gone,  or  flashes  out  so 
#- rarely  as  to  render  its  q,bsence  more  conspicuous.    A 
look,  not  quite  of  either  haxdness  or  défiance,  a^  yet 
akin  to  both^  sets  her  mouth— the  look  of  one  whom 
those  about  her  force  to  hold  her  own,  the  look  of  onct, 
habitually  misunderstood.    AU  the  bounteous  chevelure 
dorée  that  of  old  fell  free,  is  twisted  in  shining  coils 
tightly  around  the  small,  deer-like  head.    The  golden 
locks,  like  the  fair  oilc  who  wears  them,  hâve  lost  their 
sunny  f reedom  forever.    She  has  tiisted  of  the  fruit  of  the 
.   tree  of  knowledge,  and  found  it  bitter.    The  old  sparkle, 
the  old  joyous  life  of  lov«,  and  trust  iaall  things  and  crea- 
gtures,  is  at  an  end  forever.    Snowball  TiîUon— Dolores 

Macdonald— hâve  gone,  nevertoreturn;  and  leftfii  place 
this  aather  pronr^-iooiyir^gr^  Ihîa  rffjffvfd  nnd  fîrif  poiicd '. 


La%  Valentine.    The  fair  head  holds  itself  well  up— 
defiantly,  a  stranger  might  think  ;  the  bluc  eye»  ani 


■ill 


D^ 


^-  •»-. 


■.p^'? 


/    GHEETING,  335 

Iî?kf  d"ron  ?^  """k  ^^^'  °"  ^"^'^'  ^"'  P"de  and  défiance 
alike  drop  from  her  as  she  stands  hère  alone-a  ^reat 
fixed  sadness  only  remains.    The  blue  êyes  that  if e  a 

a  frit  a  bftteÏT^  "^ '"''k.'^  She  has  made 

Sf  for  f  '  T  '^'•^P^'^ble  mistake.  She  has  bound 
desDoti  ^1  ^  ^  tyrant,aWsh,loveless  household 
despot.*  man  whose  heart-such  as  il  is-is  noW  and 

hir^ade^er'" -^  '^^P'"«  ^^  ^^-^"^  Routh  '  She 
has  made  her  sacrifice,  and  made  it  in  vain,  that  a  man 

thought  that  he  loved  A,r-she  knows  that  love  nev^ 
ha^and  never  will,  enter  into  the  unnatu^  cL^' 
She  has  made,  as  manf  women  before  her  hâve  CdTa* 
fatal  mistake  ;  she  has  done  a  wrong  in  mar^^t  Sir 
Vane  Val^ine  that  her  whole  life  lp%  canTe?er"unda 


chapter'xxx 

»  «FULL  COLD  MY  GREETINGjfAS,  AND  DRY. 


^ughte  go  back-back  over  thèse  last  sive,^] 
«nonths  that  hâve  wrought^o  great  a  chan^ 

ôf  Ai      1  ' .        .    ^  °'°°''*^  -^^^  "P  before  her.  â  seriea 


"  ■■* w» ^- ■  "<ii it'l'ii — tfj*'''|f||y 


ihanjove.    Twomonths  of  marrWgé  suffice  to  show  h.r 
througj,  no  one  partieul*  wort  or  «i^  but  sim^y 


w 

I. 

V 


\  , 


■^^^^^^■\>i'  <n-~j^  '^ï.^'i*!»' 


-'J 


';# 


1-^^  ^ 


4 


f'  .i'*- 
$) 


ur- 


$$6 


GREETING, 


from  the  fact  that  truth,  like  murder,  wiU  out  ?  The- 
innate  brutality  of  the  rqan  has.shown  itself  in  spite  of 
mm,  through  the  thin  outer  venecr  of  gobd  matiners. 
from  the  very  beginning.  The  first  overt  act  was  upon 
the  news  of  the  death  of  Madam  Valentine  |n  Roma 
Stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  that  tragic  death,  wild 
with  ail  regret,  Dolores'  first  impulse  was  to  fly  hack 
at  once-at  onee.  But  Sir  Vane,  quite  composedly. 
quite  authoritatively,  put  the  impulse  and  the  hystéries 
as^de.  *  ' 

"  No^hsense,  Lady  Valentine,"  he  says,  cooUy,  «  she  is 
buned  bj^this  time,  or  is  certain  to.  be  before  you  can 
get  there.  If  your  f riend,  Macdonald,  the  marble  carver. 
could  npt  hâve  sent  you  word  in  time  to  see  her  living 
he  need  not  hâve  sent  yo^  Word  at  ail.  And  she  was  a 
very  old  woman-it  was  <}p|te  to  be  expected,  even  with- 
out  the  intervention  of  %Ue  railway.  You  dîd  not  sup-  ' 
pose  she  would  liv^|forever,  did  you?  Though  'gadf" 
Sir^aneadds,.""''^-^'  "-- ^    -'  •     •       -°  ^     * 

corne  to  myself. 


pose  sne  woulcl  Iiv^||?rever,  did  you?  Though  'gad," 
Sir^ane  adds,  W«^,  «it  is  the  conclusion /had  aboût 
corne  to  myself.  ">  v»ui. 

There    are  ^krs,   a  very  storm    of  wild  weepina 

prayers,  supplifeations-an.agony  of  grièf.     «Oh  grand' 

mamma  «  grandmamma  !"  the  poor  child  sobs-a  sensé 

of  utter  désolation  rending  her  hcart.    ït  is  a  véhément 

scène,  an|  Sir  Vane  is  extremely  bored.     He  bears  it  for 

awhilq  iiT  silence,  then  the  temper  that  iâ  in  the  man 

asserts  itself  suddenly.     He  fchrows  down  the  English 

paper  he  ^  hâs    been  reading,  and  speaks  loudly  and 

Jiarshly.       Enough  of  this,"  he  says  ;  «  don't  be  a  baby 

or  a  iool  Dolores.    Madam  Valentine  is  dead,  and  you 

are  her  heiress.     What  is  yours  is  mine,  and  I  hâve 

waited  font  for  twenty  years.    One  may  buy  even  gold 

too  dear— I  sometimes  think  I  hâve  had  to  do  it     It  is 

mine  at  last,  and  it  is  a  noble  inheritance,  and  I  am  not 


Uspesed^^gneve,  oi  let  you  grleve,  too  deeply,  over 
this  accident  that  has  taken  her  oflF.  It  was  qî^te  time 
•he  i^ent.    When  people  get  into  a  habit  of  draggin» 


1^' 


.^{    i-^4îf^^r^± 


■  r 


.,pî'<s« 


'n' 


GBJËETING, 


337 
out  life  over  sîjcty,  they  geldom  know  where  fn  c 

That  is   how  the  dçath  is   rer^vA/j     t^^ 

makes  he;  shrink  frorLfton^^^^  ^uj  before,  fills  her, 
is  attle  short  of  loaïrng  ^"'':  ^"^  ^  «««sation  that 
.     Her  second  repuise  is  on  the  suhWf  /.*  ».„ 

^o,  marital  authority  steps  in.    - 1  h.  e  Iltk  "  s?r 
Vane  says,  petulantlv  •  "  I  aKh^r  u    V>  ^^  '     ^^ 

zine,andall  theo°&glv  t^^^^^^^^^^  l^nd  bomba- 

VW  hâve  none  of  them  !    T  nwf  ??^      ^  ^""^  *°^  ^«^'^ 
--on-conviction    TrLL    ^^.     '°  '^«^'"ning  garments 

in  the  f~  Providencf  whlZ'"^^ 
about  this  sort  o?thinr;>f  """"u"'*  ^°°^  ^«^ 

people,  and  aYl\°hlt^T;1^7^^^  ""°^^ 

go  about  with  a  lady  looking  Hke  aTIo!,^°"°'''  '° 
perpétuai  «.««««'^  «^^.    Yq^L  ,  LTh    ?î  '?^^'  *     ' 
entinp. .  îf  ;«  ^*  ,  .  "  ®*^*^  "o'  do  it,  Lady  Val- 

that    I  1  "     .""^  *?r  ^"°«^  "P'  «'•  looking  at  me  Hke 
that    I  am  not  easily  annihilated  by  flashinir  Sance^ 

n^ni     "^1'°  *^  ^^^y*'^  »"  ^his  and  allTngf    And?f 


CanHIla  writes  me."  ^  '  °'  ™°°®3^^  so 

•PPeal^   Dolores  des  appeal,  passionately,  yeh<4e^t^ 


•     î 

..jr.-. 

-4' 


>;:iî%. 


é: 


.^ 


33« 


GREETING, 


angrily  it  is  to  be  feared—jt  <:«««;/  be  that  Sir  Vano 

means  thèse  merciless  words.    He  does  mean  them     As 

,    vainly  as  waves  dash  themselves  against  a  rock,  she  beats 

l  her  undisciplined  heart  against  the  dogged  obstinacy  of 

jfhis  man.    «  I  never  change  my  mind,  Lady  Valentine  " 

Ae  says,  gnmly,  "  whea  once  I  am  convinced  I  am  right 

I  am  convinced  hère.    And   tears   and  reproaches  are 

utterly  wasted  upon  nicr-you  had  better  learn  that  in 

timeJ    Let  us  hâve  no  more  of  thèse  ridiculous,  under- 

bïcd/scenes—tliese  hystéries,  and  exclamations,  and  red- 

dened  eyes.    It  is  ail  exceedingly  bad  form,  and  coarse 

and  répulsive  to  a  disgusting  degree.    You  shall  not 

.retum  to  Rome,  you  shall  not  put  on   black;    If  you 

force  me  to  use  my  authority  in  this  way,  you  must  take 

the  conséquences.    Be  so  good  as  to  dry  your  eyes.  and 

let  ail  this  end."  J-    >      "- 

And  Dolores  obeys— fiery  wrath  dries  up  the  tears  in 
the  blue  eyes,  and  in  her  passioùate  heart  at  that  moment 
she  feels  that  she  abhors  the  man  she  has  married.    The 
teeling  'does  not  last,  it  is  true  ;  Dolores  is  not  à  good 
hâter— it  is  a  loving  little  soûl,  a  tender,  child-like,  con- 
fidmg  heart,  that  must  of  its  nature  cling  to  something  • 
t^  wçuld  cling,  if  it  could,  to  the  ihan  who  is  her  hus- 
.AiÊài^^^Xj  points    that  way,  and   Dolores  has  very 
ig  instincts  çoncemkig  duty,  but  try  as  she  will  «he 
cannot.     On  every.  point   she  is  repulsed.     He  wants 
none  of  her  love,  none  of  her  confidence,  none  of  her 
wifely  duty    He  has  married  her  because  otherwise  a 
fortune  would  ha^ve  slipped  his  grasp  ;  he  has  been  cora- 
pelled  to  manyher,and  he  hâtes  everything  by  which '  ' 
he  is  compelled.    "  She  cared  for  that  other  fellow— the 
marblecarver  in  Rome,"  so  run  his  thoughts,  contemptu-  ' 
ously,  and  he  is  base  enough  to  set  that  down  as  the 
maigspring  of  her  désire  to  go  back.     Wlthout  caring 
WBëlThimself,  one  jot,  he  is  yet  wrathful  that  it  should 
be  so.    She  married  him  to  please   her  grandmother, 
igàinst   every  girlish   inclination  of  her  own  ;  he  will 


Aï^  ^ 


>'t^.- 


■  \  '"  V< 


'  U.l«iïnl£j!i!^'f '>^J> 


GREETING. 


è- 


wh4  hTLd  serv^ri?!"''^"  •""■  ''"'^"■e  fortune  for 
look  to  it  in  the  da^  t  cor-Tefr  °'  \^''-'^'  "" 

bairing  sensé  that  L  wuTbe  i  "  .  L    f'**'^' " ''^ 
,lfet  of  her  life,  fi„s  her  «  thnS  ".th  a^hf  "C  '°'  "" 
Borror  and  fear.    Alone  i  «r^^c^  ,.  *  Wank  rense  of 
doath  sh,U  them  part     1  olé ,  ,  i,     ""'  '^'"""■'«'  ''» 
iànd,  an  intrader  in  l^er  hu°toodVl^r^"' .'"  *  ''^"8» 
love,  witliout  onef riend    A  ^,   •     .       **■  *  *"""«  wi'hout 
she  thinks  of  i    a  S  tli?.  Ht  l''7°""'^«'''=^"he» 
alone  in  the  dark     She  .r       !  '^'  '*"  °^  »  <=h»d  '«« 
times,  with  a  p«stna!e  cl.wT  '°  ^"""■"^  Ann,  at  such 
that  faithfnl  oCurë"  hei7    *  "^'  «°^  "«^  '"  "«ak 

me  ;?;„"  n  !rr  p^ronlrsT""''"  '"*  "'"  "«  =  "P™"'» 
long  as  f  live   'Aave'^o       ^°"  "'"  ''"y  "'">■"«'  a. 

^  she  might  a  véritable  f  ighfened  ch^''  V  P"'""'=' 
understands,  and  resents  it  ail  bn,  .h    •  *  "*^  ''°'' 

fui  not  to  let  this  resentmii'.  " ''P*'''^''''=="^ 

her,  l,as  eyed  her  f?om  t^r  fi  T^V'    «ir  Vane  eye» 

mingledwithconte™pti«Ls  «'•""''  ""^  '"'""'°'-. 
.wife  fron.  taking  wiTh'Lrt tinTaid*'  tr"^*  "" 
hcart  aches  for  her  nre.fv  „„  "         ^'"  '""■'est 

paler,a„d  thinner  and^dir  "^.""'"^'''^ '^''<' «"»» 
day,  who  never  coi.nl.i„=       J'    ?**  '"°™  »"«"'  ^ay  b* 

=fcer  lujl  hulu  upoa  love  ■  evere  nn/.i  '"*  "'"*' 

.lipped  forever  out  of  her  Wè^  Sh!     "^  ,''T'  '°  '»"' 

"Itl  fH'"'  "'-^  °'  Wne  Valetîo?'"'^  ''^-^M 
Ail  thèse  montlMof  post-nupti.,  wandering.  Sir  Van, 


"l-. 


/••     M 


"m.  'm 


^itiS 


?^^ 


>^^' 


'Itf 


:*\r^- ?? 


^v- 


#» 


w4     GREETWG. 


ri»  .-y 


Ca 


% 


?& 


keeps  up  a  voluminous  correspondence  with  the  ladiesi 
of  Manor  Valentine.  Lengthy  epistles  f rom  his  siàter  and 
cousin  corne  to  him  with.each  post.  His  wife,  pf  coursé,  • 
reàds  none  of  thèse;  she  has  no  désire  to  read  them. 
His  womankind  must  of  necessity  be  like  himself.  She 
looks  forward  with  un speakabledread  to  the  return  to 
the  house  that  is  to  be  her  home.  The  présent  is  bad 
ènough  ;  with  a  sure  prescience  she  feels  that  any 
change-T-that  most  of  ail — will  be  for  the  worse.  Now, 
at  least,  therè  is  the  excitement  of  new  .scènes,  new^faces, 
kindly  stranger  vttices;  there  a.  monotony  worse  than 

-  death  will  set  in.  There,  there  will  be  three  'to  findfault 
with  her  instead  of  only  onè.  For  Sir  Vane  seen^s  to 
take  a  rancorous,  venomish  pleasure  in  girding  at  his 
young  bride.  If  she  is  shent,  she  is  sullen  ;  if  she  laughs 
'  •  aloud,  4$  from  pure  youth  she  s,ometimes  does,  she  is  'a 
hoiden  ;  if  she  tàlks  to  Jemima,  she  is  addicted  to  low 
'  and  vulgar  tastes.  In  ail  things  her  manners  lack  repose, 
and  are  childish  and  ^a»^i^  to  adegree;  altogether  un- 
fitting  the  dignity  of  that  station  in  life  to  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  elevate  her. 

What  wbnder  tharshe  looks  onward  in  blank  dismay 
aud  affright  to  the  dismal  home-going  to  Valentine 

>  Manor  !  With  eyes  of  passionate  longing  and  envy  she 
looks  at  the  peasant  girls  in  the  streets  ;  at  the  grisettes, 
who  go  to  th'eir  daily  work  ;  at  the  wand«ring  gypsy 
women^  with  their  brown  babies  at  their  backs.  Oh,  to 
.  be  one  of  th'em— to  be  anything  free,  and  happy,  and  be- 
loved  again  ! ,  She  looks  back  in  à  vdry  passion  gf  long-  - 
ing  to  the  life  of  long  ago — the  life  of  Isle  Perdrix,  with 
her  boys,  and  her  boat,  and  l^er  hosts  of  fri«nds,  and  the 
^  gentle  old  dodlor — to  tiiat  other  later  life,  with  grand- 

^    mamma — grandmamma  indulgent  and  best  loved— and 
evpn  Sir  Vane — a  very  différent  Sir  .Vane  from-this — the 
îavi^  g^uarded,  def erentiai^uîtorr    A  strange,  moumfu^ 
incredulous  wonder  fiUs  her.    Was  that  man  and  this  the 
•M)ie?   And  J^ne— l)ut  she  ^tops  hère;  tb|t  way  m^t 


'    «• 


A    GREETWa, 


341 

ûolrom  J^^  """"^^'^  ^^"^  ^^""'  ^°^  ^°b«  rend  thcir  way 

.    up  from  her  heart  ;  tears,  that  might  be  of  blood^he^ta 

sear,  and  blister,  and  burn,  fall.'^  René  I  René  i  & 

yo  biing  me  my  graVe-clothes  UMnorrow." 

^T,^^'  ^^^^  °''"'  Thekla-s  sad  «Jng.     Lifo 

h!r     ?!,  T  ~°"'  .'°  "■  «"«J-     "  came  t6  af  end  for 
.^  h^rontheday  it  begins  for  other  girls-her  wStog!; 

anothêrJ^riiî!'/  T'""?  "«""^  '"  *«  «'«  change; 
another  Mnes  of  pictures  rise.    It  is  arainy  March  after 

Sir  Vane  W  tel^^tJ^^-f^^Sr  te^r^li 
fever  of  nervoos,  restless  impatience  ;  his  salïow  chi^ks 
,we»r  a  flash  ;  his  black  eyes  glitter  •  hi*  llST^? 

sit  still  by  an  effort  ;  he  cannot  read  iis  Tima  ■  he  kM.™ 
S^inTe"'  ''"'"^  '"""  *e  window,  Sth:  oS 

!Îmi\  "u'^''  "'*  windowSir  Vane  opens  kt.  i»te„J, 
chm,  her  through,  in  spite  of  her  fu«,  a  ient Tm 
dread  looks  ont  o?her  eyes.  She  sits-tju  ie  Et  S 
«■oionless,  quitç  white.  The  winfloe^  by  wir a  ' 
shnek  „ke  a  banshee-s..she  thinkititH  Zv^tbl 
ram  falis  in  long,  slanting  linea    It  ts  ail  infaL;,i„„ 

rh«  ■•''r,.^.''r""*  «'"'-««Iweeping  <Sy-LhJtZ^*^ 
that  heà  like  lead  in  her  hr^c»     tu:^  f-.-V    ".   °^' 


W  her  coldnes^  darkness,  storm,  and- Jb  Vane  Val«. 
««»!    They  rush  intothe  station.    Her  hpur  bas  co™. 


-fl^' 


^.    > 


'ài**?!»^».       wi^#I"'J.-.,.     f'..    ,.?'  fo' 


iV 


.',#•• 


) 

r 


.'  *■ . 


'*Tv','*'''^'^^''^1'^  - 


#1^ 


y    chÊETIA^G. 


d«m.„^^^^  ^'^*'.  ^''**"  Valcntine  waiting  ?"  Sir  Van« 
^^  l2^^?^°"'f '^^'^y'  and  the  reply  is  crushing  : 

Wto^ere  ain  t  no  carriage  from  Valentin0." 
JVothing     is   waUing    but    one    fprlorn,    deiected 

tfe?''"t^^^-  The  baronet  isfurio^s,  lu  thé 
fact  reiïmms.  His  telegram  hàs  been.unheeded,  no 
carriage  is  in  ^aiting;  the  lord  of  thé  land,  and  h"  s 

?.L"  ;**  ^1"^  sweal's-^natbemas  «not  loud  but 
„!?  r  S  '  anotherof  the  obj«ctionable  things  he  never 

'  wilîf  "  ^'"*";*  ^°°  P"^  ^'-  ^^«'•«^  shrinks  within 
ft  thi  fl  i?''  *°?  more  repelled.  There  is  no  help  for 
1^  the  fly  it  must  be  ;  he  helps  her  in,  follows  and  so 

&^ïitorîp      >  ^«^"^"'^"^^"'^y  '^'"''^  t*^  the  halls>f 
Within  those  halls  it  is  worse.    No  one  awaits  them  ' 
ao  one  expects  them.    No  ^^in  of  retainers  is  dmwn  ^ 
lin  the entrance^all to  bid  theirlord welcome^ no firea  v 

Wto,  °o  simlmg  sister  or  cousin  receives  them  with  opeà 

wLr!l!^-^;'f    V*^«°'î°«?    Where   is   Miss    Routh? 

^?^^^    J^''  l'  ^PP^*'^  **^'  '**«  telegmm  is  lying  on 
MissValentine^  table,  still  unopened,  and  Miss  VaLdne 

expectcd  back  until  to-morrow.    Direst  wrath  fiUs  Sir 

vane.  but  it  is  wrath  expendcd  on  empty  air.    The  ser 

V««s  fly  to  do  his  bidding,  fires  are  lit.¥nne;ialid,  my 

^If:,fe^^^^^  ve^pallid,and,piritles^, 

ïhe  servants  look  at  her  furtively  and  are  diko^ 
pomted.    They  hâve  been  told  that  master  marriedT 


--««aebctttrty  an^  hcires*-sbè  looks  rieitheriTth  m 

ûrearinoM  of  this  dismal  home-coming.    Left  alone^  she      •      Jl 


ir-^IW 


':'^fM^^ 


'W^''     -^  v^' 


^m' 


^    GREETING. 


343 


f 


1 


sinks  down  in  the  ncarest  chair,  lays  her  arnte  on  the 
table  dronps  her  aching  he^d  upon  them,  and  solies-too 
utterly  wretched  even  for  tfie  relief  of  tears.       •'^^^'°'* 
Next  day  th.e  ladies  of  the  Manor  retum,  fulï  of  dis 
mayandr^retatthecontrebmp?.    Sir  Vane  is  bitter  and 
«mreasonable  at  first,  but  thèse  beingthe  only  two  créa- 
tures on  earthhe  really  cares  for,  he  allow,  himself  ta  be 
softened  gradually,  and  forgives  them  Ûandsomel^^    A 
prolonged   family  coUoquy  énsues.    Dolores  takâ  no 
.    .    part  m  it,  but  from  a  distance  she  has  sien  the  meetint— 
,         seen  Miss  Valeritmé  kiss  her  brother  primly  on  the  fS-e- 
h^d,  seen  Miss  R^th  offer  first  one  chiçk,  then  The 
other,  seen  her  husb^d  stand  with  both  her  hands  clasped 
in  his,^a  look  m  his  dark  face  that  is  altogether  new  in 
his  wife  s  expenencèof  hini.    She  drcads  the  ordeal  of 
"^''°»>!^«f  <:^o  women,  and  wishes  it  was  OFcr-it  la 

/ •dâ^^KT/°I'^'°"^''^°  oneof  thepretty  trousseau 
y-     di*S3es-that  she  has  grown  to  hâte,  since  she  never  puts 
/    ^^em  on  without  feeling  it  should  be  black  instead,  and 
^v;  goes'down  stairs.    It  is  a  cool  but  fine  March  af ternoon. 
.  .^d  meeting  no  one,  she  gathers  up  her  train,  and  de-' 
scçnds  to  a  terrace  that  commands  a  wide  view  of  the 
cojfintiyroad  and  the  village  beyond,  and  paces  to  and 
fff»,  mustenng  t:ourage  for  the  coming  ordeal.    The  or- 
d^I  cornes  to  her  in  the  pcrson  of  Miss  Dorothy  Valcn- 
titc,  m  sad  colored  silk,  not  a  confection  of  Madame  Elise 
^M,ss  Dorothy  Valentine,  as  grim  as  a  grenadier  and  as 

iTh  ^  '! "Pf!.^*,?* aVmK>d,and nearly^sslim-she 
Ma  duj^of  Sir  Vane,  in  slate-colored  silk.  andfal^s 
front  Shè-is  lean  hke  Sir  Van^  she  is  yellow  like  si 
Vane,  with  a  mustache  that  the  very  highcst  breedine 
gnnotquiteoverlook  ;  she  has  small  black  eves  like  Sir 

-^^to^»l«H»sâTOiprngl)ass  voïc^^^^T^d^iS^^^ 
of  manncr,  and  she  ha»^at  first  glance-some  seven  and 

W^ye^    Oa  her  falsc front  ofbobbingbhickriDgletf 


* 


nî 


\ 


V- 


M    -i.  • 


I    I 


344  ,     '  -rf    GREETING,  .       c"^ 

".■V-  '  ■  '  >. 

sfte  wears  an  arrangement  of/lace  and  red  rose^    ÀnA 
The  black  eyes  gSthrough  theshrinkingBCTrebefoi* 

traiômg  m  the  way  you  should  go,  before  you  arlfit  for 
your  position  as  my  brother's  wife     You  ^^  t         i  I^ 
baby--a  fpolish,  fr4lous,  mg:t;Vng  th^gt  ^haU 
be  my  business  to  change  ail  that" 

The  black,  grim  eyes  s^yall  this,  and  a  chill  of  de- 

TtîveTt^J^r  ^'  "^!;*"'    ^^^  ^-^^  ^-«he^  ^  tt 
captive  in  thé  iron  shroud  may  hâve  felL  watchincr  «î+h 

cl?s- ^'^''^^*'  deadly  wall/of  bi»  pnt^Sos  ^f  "S 
cl^sing,  down  on  his  devQted  head.  ^-^^sing,  ever 

"Shall  we  go   .n>,  dinner?"*  is  Miss  ValenHn«'« 
second  auste,^  remarl^-that  is  the  las  L^  We  4   ' 

h^oL^^nr"^' r' r  "^'"^^' ^*  °>«*ï«  '-  this  hou^ 
'«  A  !,  i  ""^  ^"^^''  ^P^  °^y  brother  approves."         / 
And  do  you  présume  to^  late  at  your  oei'il  vo.in» 

toùerawfuUevelaslongasshelives.  ^   . 

«  „„,     ??  very  sony-Camilla  Routh  and  myself- 

Î.n3î  'î    "  ""  °'"'  «'"ty  '»  •»  hère,  and  wel- 

come  home  my  brother  and-his  wife.    My  brocher  ^h 

^T?T7  f  °^°*'^  "^  •=<»■««■•*«»  to  ov«?rkK,k'ir  I 
trust,  Lady  Valentine,  you  do  likewise  •• 
,  .  Lady  Valentine  bows.    She  would  like  to  easD  ont 
^ny^h.ng-.omething  co.Kiliatory-but  the  cfmg.ani 
otlMiguage  aacu»  ta  hare  teea  f rozen  at  Itslou^   il — 
ri»  Uvea  for  ahund-^jyear.,  d.e  thinks  L^^^  ,^  V, 


.^A^ï^ 


'^*.. 


,>, 


:s.  And 
ngtoher 
tiûeris 

rebefoiîo 
smulous 
g:  but  a 
^ou  will 
'wn,  and 
e  fit  for 
spoiled  * 
it  shall 

1  of  de- 
,  as  tbe 
ig  witii^ 
ig,  ever 

mtine's   ,. 
iVe  are 

house. 

/ 
( 

yoiing 

>olores 

terrifie 

ûk  up 

'self— 
m  the 
i  «rel- 
,  with 
it    I 

p  ont 
mand 


i'4'* 


ig^v^'y 


V  r  "  7  '    %f|    '1^.   I 


e.    If 
r,  shc 


t 


A    GREETING.' 


345 


will  ««,.r  be  able  to  talk  to  this  temblc  M.s5  Dorothy 
îoc^S^rl^Sr ''^^^^"^  Theyareinti^eonl]; 

— ^^ '^'^«o^eytoralaaBwl'atocher, 

~~^        ~-_^         ^       '''*'« brl<jhtyeUowguineasf«  mer» 

f,.f  *"  ^*",^  is  Standing  beside  tlie^ano,  a  smile  on  his 
un  ;t' h?r"''i"r  ^'  *'^  ^^^  ^^V  ^/-  isloking 
eves     Sh^Hr''"^'"';:  ""^''^^'^oquolry  |n  her  uplifted 

ward--f  IJf  ^'  '^^î^°  ^^^^«^  «»'«»•'  ««d  cotnes  for- 
ward-a  small  personin  pale  pink  silk,  with  a  most 
elaborate  train,  and  a  stiJl  more  elaborate  stmc^urof 
chestnutpuflfsa'ndringlets  on  her  head-a  smk^l  S 

over  thirty  years  wili  permit-with  a  pink  and  whS 
complexion,  and  the  very  palest  blue  «yes  tHat  ever 
lookedoutof  a  blonde  woman's  face.        ^ 

«  My  Cousin  Vane's  wife,"  she  exclaims  artlessly  and 

lam  sure!  The  pmk  lips  touch,  the  slightest  touch 
the  pa  e  cheek  of  Cousin  Vane's  wife  ;  the  light  smaïl' 
eyes  take  in  one  compreheusive  flash  C;usin  vlneS 

oZ,  r^v°  '°°''  "^'^^  ^^^  ^^"«  <^°°»««  forward  "nd 
offers  her  his  ann,  and  they  ail  go  in  to  dinner.    .  \ 

Sh.  Jf  -""T  '°  ^'"^^^"'  nameand  fom,  to  the  bridl 
She  sits  m  almost  total  silence,  seldom  addressed  •  the 

as  it^. ?„!/  f  '  ^?'^' ^^°  ^' ^^^'y-"^^ «»d  kittenisï 
to  V^LZ^  T  ^^'"'"^  y°"°«^  *^'°S«  °f  thirty  odd 
unsmnîr  ^'''  Dprothy  ballasts  her  with  a  solid  an^ 
unsmihng  observation,  nowand  then.  AU  through  -hS 
long  evenmgit  js  tjie  same.  Mî«s  Valentinc  rctirl&^tt/r 
^™^  and  a  table,  and  adds  up  accounts,  wSTpSr^ 
spectacles  oyer  tbe  black  eyes,  that  glitter  across  thé 
room  in^qmte  an  awful  way.    Miss   Routh,  who,  iJ 


^t,t 


'  "•'« 


W 


rr 


34<5  '\rf    GREETING. 


w 


appears,  is  extremely  musical,  adorns  the  piano-stool 

Î^Hr.?r^  V°ii"  easy-chair  near  by,and  listen8,and 
reads  that  day's  7>V««  at  intervais.  Dolores  shrinks 
away  mto  a  seat,  as  remote  from  them  ail  as  possible,  in 
the  deep  embrasure  of  a  window,  and  looks  out  with 
h2rtsr?'\'''"^/^'^'^"^^-     ^^^  îs  lonely,homesTk^ 

gravé  m  Rome.  Ôh  !  dearest  grandmamma,  friend  of 
fnends-generous  heart  that  poured  out  love  upon  her 
lavishly,  and  without  stint  !  ^ 

-,    ''.",.*  ,*^*'*^'  mèonless  night;  outside  thl^window 

hereis  httle  to  be  seen  but  a  patch  of  cloudy  sky^and 

tall  ^rees  rockmg  to  and  fro,  in  a  rising  gale,  like  black 

phantoms.    Miss  RoutVs  singing,  more^sh^rill  Wan  sw^t" 

dri^      ""''        '°^'^'  ^'^'''^'  ^^'^^"^^  '^''^"S^  *»«'  ^ 

"  Old  loTCB,  new  lovea,  what  are  they  worth  » 
Onlyasoogk  Tnula-la-la I 
Old  love  diês  a^'oew  love's  birth, 

Givehlmasonff.    Trar^laJaJal  1 

New  love  lasts  for  a  night  and  a  d^, 
«    -  Cares  not  for  tcara, 

Mocka  at  ait  fean, 
FliealaaghiDffawayr,  *  \ 

Tben  what  is  love  worth 

At  death  or  at  birth  ! 
Onlyaaogff.   Tia4»JaJaP 

The  song*is  a  foolish  pne-.it  cannot  b^  that-ner- 

vsteH^VÏ'f'''^^'"  '*^^^°^  °^  *^«  night  wind,  but  a 
lystencal  feeling  nses  and  throbs  in  the  girl's  throat 

fc^i'  '"'i~'""  *^  o^erflowing,  of  loLiness  ^nd 
^rt-bn^  and  pain.    She  bears  it-as  long  as  sh;  can. 
-Hthen  with  a  hysterical  feeling  in  her  thr^t,  she  S 
«p,  passes  swiftly  from  the  room,  and  runs  '  down"^  to 
Jem  ma  Ann's  sanctum.    There,  alone,  Jemima  Ann  sits 


/ 


you{çifuT~ 


mistress-Bîngs  hérself   do^n  on  her  knees 


£.    •iï'    ♦       .        ^  «""S*»  iic;iacii    aown   on  her  knee<s 
'\>m<k  her,  in  ail  the  brave.^  of  her  silk  dinn«4re^ 


^-K%^'-- 


\ 


T--«Tt''-I- 


'■Wf^'nir^'Çff^ 


ano-stool, 
Vane  en- 
stens,  and 
3  shrinks 
tssible,  in 
out  with 
lomesîck, 
ew-made 
Tiend  of 
ipori  her 

^wîndow 
sky,  and 
ke  black 
msweety 
her  isad 


it— per- 
i,  but  a 
throat. 
îss,  and 
she  can^ 
le  gètà 
>wn  to 
nn  sits, 

knees 


\ 


^l£    rS   DARK. 

•  347. 

And  \zz.  Vo^z  k'ri*  i:;  *•  r*»  -""'^  -'• 
jro-ng  l'^r^/d':?,  r?  «^^  'r-^St'  "ît-  -^  •"?*' 

and  you  aln't  nothin'  but  .  S^..     'T  era»'»'™. 
That  i,  Udy  ValS^iXZSr  **""  • 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
«FOKALLiSDARKWHERETHOUARTNOT."     ' 

Eccleman,  and  the  two  Mis»  F^.„        C^     ""^  ""• 


s.i'";  *> 


'*'*^'fe.À'- 


^^"^ 


rS, 


^ 


m 


l*^ 


i. 


"l 


'      AZ£    /S   BARK, 

-  -       ••■■••  \  ■    ■  :  --  ■ 

tnanj,  I  ^vfll  not  be  missed.  Besides,  Is  no^  thécharni- 
ing  Camilla  présent  to  do  thc  honora?  Neither  she  nor 
Sir  Vane  really  want  me— àll  the  same,  I  ara  certain  of 
a  reproof  for  my  absence.  I  am  glad  Mrs.  Eccleman  is 
there,  good  motherly  çld  soûl.  I  can  shelter  myself  and 
my  sins,  for  an  hour  or  two,  under  her  broad,  maternai 
i^ings;"         '         ■    j  \ 

She  says  this  to  h^rself,  as  she  partakes  of  Jémima's 
spoil.  Mr.  Eccleman  is  the  rector.?  Mrs.  Eccleman  is 
everjrthing  that's  tnie,  is  most  plump,  and  geiiial,  aqd 
matronly,  and  with^  both  the  rector  and  his  wife  Sii 
Vane's  pretty,  graceful,  youthful,  half  foreign  wife  is  a 
pet  and  a  favorilcn 

"  And  now  to  dress,"  she  says,  getting  up,  **  and  td 
face  my  fate.  What  a  bore  it  ail  is,  Jemima  Ann.  I 
would  much  rather  spend  the  evening  hère  alone  with 


«  But  it  would  not  be  right,  Mis^  '^jciOwball.  They 
talk  as  it  is,  in  the  housç,  about  your^^di|g  80  niuch 
of  your  time  with  me,  and  bein'  so  f^ifl^i^pendly  like 
withyour  maid.  Sir  Vane  don't  lifei^  ft^ii  Miss  Val- 
entine  gives  me  black  looks  whenevé^ry«^4ier.  aiid 

MissRouth •»  '^E        ■•  . 

"That  will  do,  Jemima  ;  wewîU  leave  MiS^'îàouth'é 
namc  out,  Button  my  dress,  please,  and  keep  out  o£ 
Miss  Routh's  way.  SAt  is  not  my  kéeper,  at  least  Now 
fasten  this  spray  of  honeysuckle  in  myihair.  Hqw  old 
and  ugly  it  makes  me  look,  wearing  my  hair  twisted  up 
in  thèse  .tjght  coils.  Miss  Dorothy  would  hâve  a  fit,! 
suppose,  if  I  ever  let  it  loose  as  Tused."  i^  ,  - 

"Ah!  very  old  and  ugly  1"  assenta  Jemînia  Ann, 
standing  with  folded  hands,  and  loying  eyes,^nd  ga^ing 
atthe  faîr,girlish  beauty  before  her  ;  "cv^n  Miss  JDor- 
othy  looks  young  and  lovcly  béside  you.  How^a»  Sir 
Vane  hâve  êyes  for  that  simperin*  wbite  oat^up  staiwy^ 
she  thinks,  inwardly,  "with  that  to  look  at  And 
Bt- 


J"\ 


1 

i 


•/.*:'4r'l^,_^^^ 


rcharair' 
she  nor 
rtaia  of 
eman  is 
self  and 
làternal 


Aad 


':^: 


^;»«v.>irfwfT*V  f. 


\f 


ALL    IS   DARK: 


V       ■     349 

^  But  evctt  to  hersclf  she  is  loth  to  put  her  thoucht 
iDto  worda    Sir  Vane's  partiality  for  his  cousin    hiî 

Ild7e"  i^I  f  ^>''^  ^'t  P^'^°'  *o  *»  '^«  "ou^hc^a 
thev  know  M    °S"  "w'."^"  °°*y°°«  ^^"^  mondera.   For  \ 
nofa  llrft^i:'''*  '"  ''"'  establishment,  and  she  is 
not  a  taMPn^<i^i|H^reen.eyed,  spying,  tattling  cat  !" 

»^erdict  below  stairs.  ^  And  what 
r  her,  or  t'othcr  old  ^i^  for,  4iow 
^young  wife,  nobody  knowp"    In 

So  *u    \ "  -r^— 4er  useful  nor  omamental  :  X-  ladv 

is  the  latter,  at  least,  and  as  gentle  and  «^abfe  '' as  ■ 

ha!  Il  ^"^l    ^"?  ^'^  ^""^  '''^  ^^  ^ith  S  Routh 
hasalways  been  in  love  with  her,  and  can  see  nekhe; 
^«ty^nor  any  other  charm  ^n  his'wife,  nowXtX  ^J 


is  the 
Sir  Vane  w1 
that  he's  go? 
their  eyes  sHîp  i| 


Iëi1 


"  How  Is  it  nnder  onr  control 
To  lôre  or  not  to  lovei" 


Vw^î^vcdcinandedwitîl  thep^et*  '^ 

For  Miss  Routh-well,  she  is  in  love  with  tlie  excel- 

anJlT^Wne  rr'.''^"^^  Valentine,  with  Îhe  aHot 
^   ance  Sir  Vane  makes  her,  with  her  prétty  rooms  and 

"perquisites,"  with  beingfrankeéifter  the  rn^^i!!! 
she  tm^els,  With  the  *l|  ivy-g^'^td:!?^^^^^^^^^^ 
Hogse  in  every  way  as  a  home.  —  . 

™,»  ^",'  ^?'.''°  y°"^""ink,  Jemima  r  deaands  Jemima's 
»«tre9^  loohng  at  herself  in  mther  a  dissatisfied  "l^n 
Zrl  ■  .1-  "  '  »"•  dreadfully  tanned  ridingTaSs 
March  w.nd  and  sun,  an*  Sir  Vane  wiU  be  sure  to  nottJe 
and  diœpprove.    And  I  don't  think  ttii9««  &  ^^drèss 

r^«  Zn^f  r  "'  "'"'  ""'"  8o  »p  to  my  o™ 
room,  and  do  it  ail  properly  ?" 

wï**° ^°°^^  P'"®*'^  *^  P^^'ty»  Miss  Snowball."  cries 
Jemima,  warmly.    «  Go  up  jest  as  you  be.    Miss  Camma 

Ir^f  ^T  .u.  ^°^  •^®°'**"*  ^^  "ght.  Dolores  is  in 
^i/grecn.    The  pale,  lustrous  tmin  swecps  far  behind 


«W.1 
.'*- 


t;, 


'.     rjf 


'  ^r 


/. 


350 


Knot  of  the  same  sweet  flowers     Ti-  ic  o  «^^v      .  "^^asc- 

the  p,ano  .s  going;  Miss  Routh,  as  U!^,UchaTmt; 
what  she  has  is  thin  and  shriU-it  !«  «  lintlT     ^°"=*^ 

the"Irs  bodvTwîl^^K'''*™'"  ««P^evenrnerve  ta 

60  innocent,  «(.youthfal,  ttat'^th^r  mi^fh  °  l?-!î 
even  lum.    But  Sir  V.„e  VaienUnTis  n^T  e^";  X^ 

-t  ?  Do  you  know  I  aiW^  ^j^"  w^J"'^' t^t'ï:^ 
cause  ofthem?  Do  you  knawp^ple  *™Ôu  "«  „^ 
hap»_hayeson,ething  on  your  mind-S  i°i, S^^« 

|Pe  ^Q"°y j^ke  a  mad  yoman  ?  Do  "^.  1- ^     ^ 


ridtes?" 


cy  and  household  duty  for  thèse  in 


you  know  y^a=aqg>^ 


4V 


U^i — -j--i._ 


-'W, 


MJk.  ias(t<î'  iii' 


J.i#i,aS' 


t*'!'*     J'^ 


^',- 


^ 


u- 


-lAt' 


^ZZ    fS    DARK. 


JSi 


ripes 


She  îs  in  for  it  with  a  vengeance,  and  her  spi 
to  meet  the  assault.    «  Social  and  Household  dut/î  '  sbtf 

from  ail  cares  of  that  sort,  in  th#house." 

"  Do  you  know,  in  a  Word,  that  your  conduct  .'s  dis- 
graceful-disgraceful  r  goes  on  Sir  Vane,  twisting  his 
mu^s^ache  with  those  long,  lean,  nervous,  b^own  -fingers 

The  color  flushes  up  in  Dolores'  face.  The  bîue  eyes 
uphft  again  very  steadily  this  time,  and  meet  the  irate 
black  ones  full.  "  Disgracef ul  !"  she  repeats  once  more, 
the  slender  figure  very  straight,  the  white  throat  held 
very  high,  '*  that  is  a  strong  w6rd,  Sir  Vane  Valentine. 
2Mnce  when  has  my  conduct  been  disgraceful  ?"  «- 

"  Since  I  bave  known-you  !    In  Rome  you  spent  half 
your  time  in  the  workshop  of  that  marble  cutter  Mac 
donald-a  fèllow  in  love  with   you,  as  you  very  well 
knew— as  he  tqok  care  to  let  you  know,  no  doubt.    And 
you~how  Vas  it  with  you  in  those  days  ?    Hère,  you 
contemn  my  sister,  ignore  my  cousin,  set  at  naught  my 
wishes,  shght  my  guests,  spend  your  time  in  the  saddle 
or  by  the  side  df  that  atrocious  Yankee  woman,  the  very 
sight  of  whom-with  her  nasal  twang  and  gorilla  face-- 
I  hâve   always    detested.      You   defy  me   and    publia 
opmion  by  galloping   breakneck    across  m  countrv 
heaven  knows  where,  without  so  much  as  a  groom     By  ' 
what  name  are  we  to  call  such  conduct  as  this  ?" 

The  flush  has  faded  from  her  face,  faded  and  left  her 
strangely  pallid  and  still.  She  stands,  her  hands  clasped 
loosely  before  her,  her  steadfast,  scornful  gaze  still  fixed 
upon  him.  o  ^v* 

.  ,."  ^  u"  "^^^^  °"*  ^  *'''*^"fi^  """^^  î"  t^e^^e  î«  a  quick  catch 
in  her  breath  but  her  voice  is  quiet.  "  Is  the  indictment 
JEJiffggt  S|r  Vane,  or  is  there  morfetoxome  r 


l*'^    V 


r*  •"5°"'"  !l^^!f^°  ^î"  °ot  avail  you,  Lady  Valentine. 
U  is  tjme  ail  this  ceased.  It  shall  cease  from  to-night.  oi 
I  8n»U  know  the  reoson  why." 


Si-.'^Bl 


o 


yV 


-iâs. 


I 


«r--  -m 


35* 


^ZZ    Zy    DAIS^. 


;-«* 


'* 


Shc  bows.  «As  the  king  wills!  What  are  your 
wishes?  It  is  not  in  form  to  loçe  your  temper,  is  it? 
Be  èood  enough  to  sigqify  what  you  désire— no,  com 
mand— me  to  do,  distinctly,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  obey." 
,  "  Ycs,  I  am  aware  of  the  kind  of  obédience  I  may  ex-, 
pect.    Why  havayou  dismissed  Lennard,  the  groom  ?" 

,  "  Simply  because  if  I  must  creep'along  at  a  snail's 
pace,  to  accommodate  Lennard's  rate  of  riding,  I  prefer 
not  to  ride  at  ail.  Appoint  a  man  who  can  keep  me  in 
sight,  and  I  shall  submit  to  his  surveillance.  I  can  give 
up  going  out  altogether,  though,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"And  hâve  thd  country  set  me  down  as  a  tyrant, 
keeping  my  wife  under  lock  and  key.  The  râle  of  martyr 
would  suit^you,  no  doubt  No,  you  may  ride,  with  a 
groom,  but  w/  at  the  pace  you  indulge  in,  nor  till  such 
outrageous  hours.  For  the  rest,  I  désire  you  to  disraiss 
that  woman." 

^  "What  woman?"  startled.,  «You  do  not  mean— no, 
impossible  !— Jemima  Ann  ?" 

"  I  mean  Jemima  Ann.  Her  présence  is  odioûs  to  me. 
It  always  was.  You  hâve  had  her  from  the  first,  in  open 
défiance  of  my  express  wishes.  And  only  to-day  she  in- 
sulted  Miss  Routh." 

"  Insulted  Miss  Routh!  Jemima  Ann  însult  any  one  ! 
Oh  !  pardon  me.  Sir  Vane,  I  cannot  believe  that" 

"  Do  you  insinuate  that  Miss  Routh  says  what  is  not 
true?" 

'I  think  Miss  Routh  quite  capable  of  it,"  retorts 
Dolores,  calmly,  though  her  heart  is  beating  passionately 
fast  ^*  Miss  Routh  is  capable  of  a  good  deal  to  injure  «  1 
person  she  dislikes.  And  I  know  she  dislikes  poor 
Jertima.  If  she  ,says  my  maid  insulted  her,  I  believe  she 
says  a  thing  deliberately  untrue." 

"  Upon  my  soûl,"  the  angry  baronet  excjaims,  "  this'is 
.■_^amuch^    To  mjr  y^iy iace you  tell me^ny  cousin  Ues^ 
But  this  is  no  time  nor  place  for  such  a  discussion.    We 
Bhall  settle  this  matter  later.    At  prescnt,  if  you  mean  to 


»>-(i 


»  1 


'"*     ,7'^-'^    ^Wf- 


ire  your 
;r,  is  it? 
no,  com 

0  obey.'* 
may  ex-. 
3om  ?" 

El  snail's 

1  prefer 
p  me  in 

:an  give 

I»' 

• 

tyrant, 

L  martyr 

,  with  a 

ill  such 

dismiss 

an — no, 

s  to  me. 

in  open 

she  in- 

ly  one  ! 

t  is  not 


retorts 
onately 
njure  a  ', 
s  poor 
eve  àhe 


"thisis 
lies! 


1 


1.    Wc 
lean  ta 


-^ZZ    IS   DARK. 


353 

cas,  the  black  im„     "■?/^'-"f' ^^mooths,  as  welUshe 

.hadelfca.e;eœ^e:d  h^ld  hT^rtr/- '^ 

ous  hiim^.-^»  ♦!,•  "'gn-    one  is  m  a  dane^er- 

looking  militari  o,aaii°lhL*°-     (^""f  ^^""''è- 
as  a  Spani^d     Mis?  Ro..,t  '    •         *?*'  *"^  *=  «"arth 

pionounci  ffiïStio?        ™^  "'P'"^  '""^  °'  »  »<«' 

Mis'sRo'J^lsïï^'ohr^tf'Tl*^"  «""  '»'*f'"- 

pecding;Ud™srn;ay1rHog°d"U'':  "m"''  "^•'^ 
of  her  own  and  fly  away  to  anôu>er Test  ^sill  ^°°'° 
ready  to  say  ••  Yes,  and  thanl»ron  "  L  tw.  "•""' 

moment  Colonel  Deeringma^sM  fifti  k  T  °"'"" 
heavy  dragoon  glove.  A^d %r  v  11  v  ""  ''°""'  '"'» 
.gloomy,  and  wraÂf^  »„^^  Vané.knows  it,  and  is 
inghe^  DoloTS  s^'  Tj^^T  r°K'*ngIy.  Stand- 
brow  Miss  R™f,i??\'        .'    '""■  "'"S'and's  frowning 


beat,  her  on  her  own^^u^d ,'  Shf  •  °  •■""•  8""«'  ""<> 

œood.    She  is  youn^S^  m-     Ï,    "J"  '  «^"gerous 

younger  than  Mis»  Rou*  ;  sh»is  quite  a« 


*,i 


6.^"^tiJ»» 


1  O».^»"* 


>'# 


"^ 


fit!     « 


"■y  Af.L    IS    DAXiC.  ^ 

9 

pœtty  ;  what  if  she  show  her  hiisband  shc  can  be  as  at- 
tractive in  the  eyes  of  other  men  as  even  the  captlvating 
Camilla  ?  She  is  no  coquette  ;  the  game  is  beneath  her, 
and  she  feejs  it,  but  she  is  sore,  stung,  smarting,  hurt  to 
the  very  heart.  And  Camilla  Routh  is  the  mischief- 
maker  and  direct  cause  of  it  ail.  Very  well,  let  Camilla 
Routh  109k  to  it  !  for  this  one  evening,  at  least, 

V  "Theyshall.takçwho  hâve  the  powcr. 

And  tbey  Bball  keq>  wbo  can." 

» 

Her  fixed  gaze  perhaps  magnetizes   the  handsome 

colonel.    He  looksmp,  across,  and  sees— a  goddess  !    As 

f«t  chances,  although  he  has  been  hère  bfefore,  it  is  the 

first  time  he  has  seen  this  face.'    A  face  !  it  îooks  to  him, 

in  the  sparkle  of  the  l^mp,  »  radiant  vision,  ail  gold  and 

green,  and  starry  eyes,  an  exquisite  face.     He  looks  and 

fairly  catches  his  breath.    "  Good  Heaven  !"  he  «ays, 

4inder  his  thick  trooper  mustache,  "what   a  perfectlv 

"  lovely  girl  !"  ^ 

Then  he  turns  to  Miss  Routh,  too  much  absorbed  in 
her  own  vivacious  tittle-tattle  to  hâve  noticed,  and  says. 
m  his  customary  tones  :         /    ,  ^-» 

"  There  is  a  new  arrivai,  I  fancy.  Who  is  that  young 
lady  m  the  green  dress  ?" 

Camilla  looks,  and  her  face  changes  for  a  second  ;  à 
sort  of  film,  it  seems  to  Colonel  Deering,  cornes  over  the 
green  eyes.  "That,"  she  answers,  coldly.  "is  Ladv 
Valentine."  ' 

"  Lady  Valentine  ?  Ah  !"  in  accents  of  marked  sur- 
prise, "  Sir  Vane's  wife  ?" 

"  Sir  Vane's  wife.  A  wild  American  who  ousted  him 
out  of  a  fortune,  and  whom  he  married  aftcr  to—secure 
it,  says  Miss  Routh,  and  some  of  the  bitter  hatred 
withm  her  har(|ens  her  dulcet  voice.  "Her  youthful 
•adorer,  Harry  Broughton,  is  Jeadiny  her  to  fhe  piann;_ 


.-!&- 


wo  are  loTiear  as  well  as  see  her,  it  seemsT   She  spends 
her  limegalloping  over  the  coUntiy,  like  the  Indians  on 


■JJ^mià£%'iÉiMfy,- 


-^ 


be  as  at- 
iptivating 
neath  her, 
g,  hurt  tb 
mischief- 
t  Camilla 


landsome 
[ess  !  As 
it  is  the 
s  to  him, 
g'old  and 
ûoks  and 
he  «ays, 
perflectly 

orbed  in 
md  says, 

it  young     ^ 

!Cond  ;  à 
over  the 
is  Lady 

feed  sur- 

sted  him 
— secure 
•  hatred 
routhfui 

L„piano;  = 

spends 
lians  on 

■■■■'.■      .       ,-;^' 


llVrl>  :?' *« 


l^#''V^^' ^r-^  . 


^  '*  hl  ;!'^%w'  •*'>-"'^^*^f 


f  .• 


■J^fVi    ""v    r' 


yt*ufy 


^LL    IS    DARiC, 


,  355 

'     ïier  native  plains  ;  that  is  why  yoa  hâve  n/.i  .        u 
any  previous  call     She  ,'«  lil  a  ^'    ^®"  ^^^  <>" 

-uSr^^^r  f  b^^;r  t  ^^-^  ^^  °^^^^  ^^^^  ^^ 

frown  ;  he  does  not  evcn  take  thr^rnifi^  ^.       ,  "''"^• 
•  s^ond  ti.e  at  the  group  ^~l^^^'^^^^^         ^ 

Eccleman  has  given  place  to  her  hostess     Ih^'  .       "^ 
as  the  youthful  Sànir^  ^f  r»       "°s^ess.     bhe,  as  well 

admirer  ofL4vat;u„e^^""«'"°"'  "   ""«  -<■«« 

"Smg  tfiat  lovely  thine  of  Adelaîrfp  P-^^    . 

Hng,ng  thXr;r -17-^^^^  words  hâve  bee„ 
ment  the  long-  lamn  \\t  a        ■  *  ^'^^-     '»  »  «ïo* 

Ail  her  passionne  ,o™wf"'.Tf;°''''^"^ 
sings  :  "^^^owiui  neart  is^  the  vords  she 

^       .^^■,St=>rcdwithpicturesbright and  tare.  •' 

Strains  of  dcep  melodious  music 

FlMtuponthepcrfumedair. 
NotfiîngMirs  the  drcary  silence. 

^ear  the  jJoor  and  humble 
Where  I  fain  would  be. 

Where  I  am  the  Sun  is  shinJn^, 

-.,^i  *•=  P"^'«  «Windows  glow, 
1  iU  their  nch  armoriai  shadows      " 
Stain  the  marble  floor  below 
»     •  '^a^edautumnleavcsaretrembliiw 

On  the  withercd  jasmine  tree. 

»       ^'°g/P""<<tUctitUeaMc«wifc^ 

,    WÉ«re  I  fain  wçuld  be. 


■^? 


i 


t' 


* 


A 


'î%^j 


■'«* 


WThêre  I  am  ail  think  me  happr. 
ForsoweUIpUymyparT^^ 


;.* 


.y^  ■ 


J>i> 


âfetKS'jï.^sf?>v^ 


»<!ddk» 


ii^'-'mm 


't% 


ts'i-' 


,  ^■*;^'^îr 


356 


M 


ALL    IS 


w'.  '|iMecaofi:uea8,Wiio«milH|n>und 

|_  IHow  far  disant  ift  my  hiffit— 

;,     •<       i»''awa)rinap4!a^èottag^ 

Jl^^tçning  td^^%çary  scâ^  j,.^ 


^^b|rej8^she;ïc\>j^ometI^g^'| 
'^"'       r,  in  ^he  suggestiohsjf  èBe^w<»na§,  bmqs» 

lite  stai  for  a  mômeil^  %t^è^omë!it  sïîè 
•lUept  Colonel  Deeriflg,  strpking  his 
,  Uh  his  hand,  thrilled  by  the  song  arul 
'%mM.i5^a::i^^3i  '^M  ^'"'''^^^  ^"  Vane^iack  as  night,  sees 
^'m^l^1^^"2'i^  ^""^  ^^^"""^  Calï^lla  Routh  flashes 
%^W.athiriliand  in  that  moment  kfl^s  that  Sir  Vane's 
^^  wifMi  as  misérable  as  she  ,is  beautifut^  '^God  !  I  don't 
^;.  weh^Witcouldbe  otherwise,"  he  tHifks,  «married  to 

£^    «t^ï^*  ^r^^'"  ^°"''''"  ^^  «ay%  aloud,but  still 
larelessly,  «Lady  Valentine  bas  a  voice,lnd  knows  how 

^throw  soal  into  wbrds.    Do  me  the^fayor-presènt 

Miss  ilouth  lises  at  once^it  is  no  part  of  •'her  pfans 
to  show  reluctançç.  She  casts  a  second  mocking,  mali- 
cious  glance  at  %x\  Vané  as  she  sweeps  by^-he  fe  seated 
beside  the  elder  MisS  Eccleman,  but,  CamiHa  knows, 
lopcs  not  one  sfght  or  sound  that  goes  on. 

Colonel  Deering  is  presented   in  form,  and  bows 

a  most  as  prof oundly  as  he  does  to  her  Majesty,  when  he 

attends  a  drawing-ro<^.     «You  sang  that  sbng  with 

more  expression  chan  I  cver  heard  thrown  into  a  song 

before,    hesays.    "We  areall  fortunate  m  havingcaged 

a  singingbirdat  Valentine.    IWishI    ^^- 

you  to  let  us  hear  it  oticç  mpr^.'' 

"Singa  Scotch  song,  Dolore 

^o»th,»||^y,  «Sing  AuldRo 

The  4PPe  of  the  suggesti 

Hi^rry  Brougbton  édds  his  entre 

VS  Ifle^  pfald,  guàrded  by  Colon 


th^chords,  and  $ighs  forth  the  s 


utjLL^'.A.ï^''  ?-4^tf,  JSê.  .  -^^ék 


K 


prevail  upon^ 
;îmes  in  Miss 


on   Dolores. 
■hegoesagain 


She  strikes 


mèht  she 
king  his 
jong  an.d 
ight,  sees 
:h  flashes 
ir  Vane's 
I  don't 
irried  to 
butstill 
ows  how 
-présent 

er  plans 

ig,  mali- 

^  seated 

knows, 

d  bows 
when  he  , 
ng  with 
a  song 
g.caged  ^ 
lil  upon 

in  Miss 

)olores. 
is  again-...:^ 


^ZZ   VS    DAR^, 


"  And  Auld  Robin  Gray  waa  a  gudp  man  to  me.  " 


351 


«She  means  nothing  persdpal,  I  hSpe,  Vane  "  lau^h, 
he  artless  Camilla,  fluttering  do;n  by  h  s  side      "n£^ 


'„  F'araway  in  a  poor  cottage,     s     ' 

Listening  to  the  dreary  sesa,      ^ 

Where  thc  treasures  of  my  li/e  are  ,    .   ' 
There  I  fain  would  be4'  '/ 

Iove7of  ,LtrM-  ,"f  r°°S  «feem  the  Kapdsome  boy 
loyer  of  those  blissful  d^ys.  He  «  handsome,  Vàne  "l 
^w  h,s  mcture,  by  cha/ce,  one  day,  in  her  a  bum     hi! 

.«ameunâerneatU-Bdlfe.    He  was  her  first  lover    'c^! 

,  o.el  Deermg  bids  fair,  from  his  looks,  ,o  be  her  laS 
Now,  there  .s  r^lly  no  need  for  you  to  scowl  in  S 
way,  my  dear  cousin,  I  am  but  in  jest,  of  course    Of 

=:hrv"jiretr  "^  ^^'"^-  ^■"^  -^^ 


'•i^--- 


"  *  I  dinna  think  o'  Jamie  now. 
■  For  that  wad  be  a  sin.'  " 


/and  grmd  bis  teeth,  and  rises  to  flutter  away.    |?r Tane 

ike  bS'^  ''^  "^  "''*^'  "  ^^'^^  ^^« 

-,,M  ^T^^  iealous,  gamilla  ?    I  ^^  see  that  Deerinc  is 

evjd^ntfy  s^eryi«g  |„  as  allegian^a^and^^ 

«  yqp  ca»^  he  fs  a  fish  worth  «v*.n  «>«.^  k„:.  .  u'.  .*'™"*^  - 


jwhen 


a  year,and  wiil  ^v*ite  his  naùie  high  in  the 


>\- 


■    \^' 


N  ', 


strikes 


A.y- 


V 


7m^     p    ""!  J^WeU,  rèn  thousand  a  y4r, 

^Z  ^^r^'''^^'^  suitswlôr 
ii^cnd,  At  preént*èxt%ntine  seems  rathcr 


^ 


& 


■*  ,  /         ,r    */       *« 


IN*: 


358  (^ 


ALL    /S    DARK. 


r  - 


going  with  him  toérisit  the  orchid  house." 

^Sunn.    "^"^r^"  eyes  flash  fealefully,  then  she  lau^hâ. 

/appose  we  oo  go  and  look  at  tï^^  orchids,  Vane  ?"? 
1        They  go,  Six  Vane/still  moodily  gnawiiff  his  mus 

ahni.rfK^  •  .  "^^®  y°"  spoken  to  your  wife 

'p:i:^:'::!T''''''' '''  '^^  "^^^^"  «^-^k^  as  .he; 

il^oîZJ^^  *^^''"°^'  '°  crédit  it  ;  her  maid'is  incapa- 

hlod     Ami^'^'r^'^u'^  ^^^"^  '  ^^^«^°ld  a  false- 

'       1  «  T*    u      ?  ^°"  "^^^^  °™® '°  do  ?•' sulkily. 

«  «h^ii      ^^^^  'T*^""'  '^"^^°'  ^^^ai«s  in  this  houàe  / 

o  b^  endutd  'r  1:M'°"  P^""^^  ^^  ^^^'  class  are  ^of 
^îJfif  f,  •  ^  '^^"  "°'  ^^°^^î°  "°der  the  same  roof 
witji  her.     My  mind  is  made  up.'>  ^^ 

rWhatthedeuce^idshesay?" 

«J!Îk'°^'^®.  ^""""^  remark,  «a  harmiess  c^.  of  corrse 

t^Ï^ÎT'"''''-    ^^"  ^^^«"'^^  ^'  ^t  onœ,  n  a  manne; 
insolent^  to    outrage.      She    said,"  the  words  œmin  J 

•'MWnSr'^^M-^r'^  ^^^^^^  teeth^'LTS 
Miss.bnoWjJ)all— ridiculous   name!— was  mi  Aee\h,. 

imitation  of  unfortunate  Jemima  Ana-'that  a  l?lf 
mn«cen  conld  béas  solid  and  prim  as  a^/^  |^L/ 
Thdse  „ere  her  odious  words  ;  she  did  not  VZ  Télo 


"Jf.^'  .'.he-whafs  the  use  of  I^sing  jrourWr, 

'•    I  dislike  hersas 


CamiUa  !    You  know  she  will  go.     x   aisiiKe  Her  «, 
Zt'"^  ^^"  ^-   ^^  -  --embout  r   SheTluSI 


lA/jr^^"^^'  ^^°^-"    ^^"  fiï^  Camilla's  pale  eyes    • 
riie  presses  so  gratef  ully  the  arm  on  which  she  iS 


m 


\ 


ff.  •^ 


't 


's 


.?^^«^tkg.iî- 


■         7      -i^ 

If       ^f^^  '^ 


îive  she  is 

le  laughs. 
ane  ?" 
his  mus- 
,  Camilia 
rour  wife 
i>  as  they 

s  incapa- 

a  false- 


iouâe,  / 
are  not 
ne  roof 


COI'  rse, 
raanner 
coming 
it  whén 
ge,  she 
't  tobe 
liSes  in 
gai  of 
maidi* 
me  \o 
but— ^f 

ïn^er,  " 
1er  as 
!  sliall 


'#■ 


^I-L    IS    DARK. 


') 


-<.>^^ 


-],:'''  ^f  ! 


359 

Roses,"when  theother  pair  enter     n^f".  T""»  ""« 

her  cheeks  flushed.  her  e^t"  S^'"  ^""'^  «'«'■'  «ver. 
gayety  in  every  look  and  w^r?  ,S'.  '^'^  °'  ^«^less 
donc  hér  best  „p  Tthis  nth,  l^,  u^'^u  ""'^  ^he  bas 
failure.     Why  not  ?      T  i  J    '    ^  ''*''  **''  "  »  ^'8^1 

here-whyno^takéhert^m  rH!,?''.^'""»'^'^»»^ 
not  propidate ,    She  4s  ™^Hrt  '^^  ""  '«"  ^"^  =»» 
the  min  looks  to  her  ^^"        ^hipwreck  o£  her  lif^ 

act  of  her  own  ctn  fver  ™  'r"'^*"' ""'  »*ciless 
doctrine,  and  oné  quite  fo:^:;\^"fr.''°«-  *  Jj|W 
thetrainingofherirfe  to  ™™-  *".-""*  '""»?«« 
puise  ofhe?heart.  The  Da«17J  "r"'  """^  pure^" 
future  is  hopeles^  the  prient?,  a  7    ''°''  ""?"'  *'"^  "" 

■  Why  not  try  at  leist  tn'^i^  k      !  ?"■*  '"K"'^''  «"d  pai» 

"I  hâve  pu    my  dl  'aTa  rt  ""•■7'  «»<1  '«.^t 

.  ''«'a-ove?.dr7™Xat  ^re'-rel^i"'-^'''' 
pang  of  cruelest  pain     Coi^t.T  n^    ?*"*  """''^  "'th  » 

'east  with  -un.an^^^nSyreL^rfh  rai"'  ""  " 

■  praise,  and  that  soothe     On/j^T       ■  ".^t*rf'>d 
stare  of  fforeonsaftlrLi,-,     ^i""^  ''*»'7  ofTlfSiby 

*Thatsufficesforto.n^ht     R.^,     ,.  ^''''  Poor  Oolores  ! 

ently,  and  the  ColonT«eeôfv'l  "   t  "'1.°™'  P"»' 
formany  adav  bas  J/A  h-      ■     ^  ' ^^"'^"'•ehas  been 
'VBB'y  "P  tri  heT r^^  ?  -r  "!îï""  «"""-"isht,  she  goeS     ' 
î«^h  it  wethéd  h^;r'''"«^r  ^'•«"y  »ilk  andla^ 
o-Polny  Sf:?.Î°;f;j»;.»"f  fksinto  thedepth, 


^"       X  r;  •''^r"'"^»  A-an,   snesays-* 

%ggéi^  wi^'y^^:":''  «reat  cieaj  happier  dowTirS 

i3'  ^  ^®®"*  ^°"  «°SinVlèfiss  fenowball  "  T*»m- 

K  «ir.  pi  ho^  you  l^s  enjoyin' 


î  eyes, 
léaos. 


itv^î  ' 


m^^ 


■'^il 


joitsdt    But  I  see  easy  enough  you  do  lopk  jcst  as 
nprhîte  and  wore  out  as " 

'     "Sènd  this  wo^piPgl^adv  Valentine,"  saj-s  an 
abrupt  voice,  " I  hàfeaTvord  or  twb  tô  say  to  you."    It 
^is  Sir  Vane,  forbidding  and  sullen. 

Jemima  Ann  gives  him  a  glànce  of  unmistakable  feaf . 
and  aversion,  and  goes. 

"  Wait  in  thç  dressing-room,"  says  the  sweet,  clear 
voice  of  her  mistress  ;  "  I  sliall  want  you  again,  Jemima, 
Now,  then,  Sir  Vane  ?" 

She  looks  up  at  |iim'with  the  same  steadfast  glance  of 
a  ftw  hours  earlier.    If  it  wjsw/  be  war  to  the  kn^fe,  % 
th^nks,  is  she  to  be  bl^ed  for  trying  to  hoM  her  owi? 
"I  désire  you  to  dismiss  tbat  woman  !"  J^ 
"I  hâve  dismissed  her.    We  are  alone." 
■^I  mçan  out  of  the  house,  out  of  your  service.     Why" 
do  yd(iuî)retend  to  misunderstand  ?    She  has  insulted  Miss 
Routh.    Her  présence  is  not  to  be  tolerated." 

"  I  am  sofry  if/jf^e  has  insulted  any  one.  ^ihe  must 
hâve  been  verf^rèmy  provolçed.  I  shall  spe^k  to  her 
about  iUgnd  if  ^Miss  Routh  ha|  not  made  a  very  great 
mistak^l^îitià  Ann  will  apologize." 

**  iw^t  no  apologies.  Uy  cousin  h^  given  me  her 
ultimàtùo^^uËither  your  maid  leax0s  or  she  does." 

"ThajÉ^Stild  be  affity—V^ntinér  without  Miss 
Routh— pne  fail^  to  iûaagimyH  ^ut  I  m  nofthink  you 
needbe  seriousiy  alarnj|JjPB;^>that  threat.  %«lieve  me, 
Miss  Routr  «eill  jfck  twict  "befo^e  she  quits  vour 
bousç.  "^9-    %■    •    ""     '  ■■»   '  '        '     *     ■ 

"We  éi[o%otré^mfourbeliëfs!  .1  hâve  not  comc 
to  discuss  this  question,  or  to  ask  a  favor.     I  demand 
thajt  you  send  away  that  woman,  and  ât  once." 
^*  And  I  distinctly  refuse  !" 

(     "Madam "  / 

^    tSia  Vane»"  she  says,  rising,'  **  Jistea  4o^  mcr— I-hi 
borne  a  great  deal  since  I  became  your  wife.    I  havc 
yiel(^  in  ail  things  since  I  came  hère,  to  your  sister  and 


ok  jest  as 

"  saj's  nn 
you."    Il 

kable  fear . 

reet,  clear 
,  Jernimo, 

glanceof 
kiHfe,  J^e 
her  own  ?   . 


:e.    Why^ 
ilted  Miss 

Ihe  must 
|k  to  her 
ery  great 

a  me  her 

•ut  Miss 
bink  you 
ieve  me, 
its   your 

loi;  como 
demand 


.  I  hâve 
ster  and 


•;/ 


^^«ït^Hr  'v"^,^r»*''V'' 


■^£Z    IS    DASX. 


1   ¥' 


'  ?°'^.*'  <^0"s»n.  for  the  sake  of  oeac^     R..f  • 
be  bought  too  dearly.     You  ^1  tno^T  ^^^^^  "^^ 
rather  the  mîstress  of  your  ho^t  M      ^"^^  ^'"'''S^^^  «r 

yousay?    Themistr;ssofrSfLse.    t1  ^"""^  ^^"' 
care  !     You  may  go,  too  farT'  ''^  care-take 

"  She  is  that.  îs  shf»  rirt^v»  w       '^  ,     ■ 

■nuch  as  possible  forX  future  ô^?„f?''  """  ''"'  ''««P  " 
Mor,  than  that  I  oaCttZr '  l'/L'™'^' '''?'' /-"• 


.ot  part  withAer.     ZTn^tJ'':^»^!  ^  '"'"V 
>f  Heaïen,/Tou  shall  !    Vn.„„"?V..     .      ^- 


ï  cannot 

«R^  hT'  '""yticr.     1  cannot— I  will  ijot  »" 

.  .o  a„.ious  to  4™  TT:oZ':zr^z  r.  "'"^ 

new  lover  of  tb-ni|ïht  >    Ynn.Z\ ^  1  ^^^*  °^  y<>"»* 

jrou  waX,"  hTs^;  f  "doTSr T  T ,  "  '  ^^ 
house,  afad  at  once  !    Paclc  un  ^n^  ^   °"  ''"'*  "^' 

(1  go«é,yon't  let  me  tave  to  look  «  ^°'  ^^  ""'"  V»"  «^^ 
I    *!,    ^.'  ^^^^  Snowball  r  dear  Miss  sSini  •" 

Wffrighted  Jemima,  «  what-whlteveSi  L^^ 

1  ci/^°'^^"S:-thatis,  you  hâve  di^3^L^^!^ 

\  Sii^  Vane  is  excited  to-mVht  •  keen  ^.!f  tu-      ?  ^°"'^- 

^  Ws  for  a  few  davs   uBm/v      f      V°^  ^'^  ^'Sht  and 

*ill  forget  it-S'e   ""pi  ^^^  ^'^^^^  »>ï<^^s  over.    He 

t^hall  L  wanî  y^  «'    """"^  ''°°^'  Jemima,dear  ; 

"And  you  wilI   not  send  me  awav?    ni. 
Miss  Snowball  l  hoi^  could  T  ni       ^    /^^  J^Y  own 
own  dearest  dear?''  "^^  ^^^^^^  from  you,  my 

""^^i^^^^^l  cries,  catchin^  h^r  bnnfh  wilh 


No,  you  shall  norgo     w"  "  ""l'"  '^^^^^  b"'  you  ? 
^^  *  ^  16  So.^/^ve  me  now-^yes,  do,  pleas^ 


■  i% 


l^»  ^^  ^,1'^t  -    a^       /  •     -  aj>. .(  f^ii^M 


X 


'"S- 


36» 


il 
*  1    -i 


I  would  wthcr.     Never  mind  my  hair  ;  I  will  twist  it 
up.     Good-night.  good-night  "  "  " 

His  name  breaks  from  her  lips  in  despite  of  hercelf 
H,s  image  mis  her  heart  as  she  kneels;  his  vÔ  c,  isIS 

Jov«  him  !    In  sh„ne,  in  misery,  in  remorse,  she  réalises 

rinfuWy"""^'^.'^''"'"'  """"  »""'^'  "»"  »bs;i„tei;  how 

"René!    René!"    For  this  she  eave  him  ,m    h-. 

«Sf  tht""^'/r  '"'  "="•  '■■«  '«'««"  th  heaTén  on 
earth,that  would  hâve  l)een  hersas  his  wife.  Lowerand 
lower  she  seems  to  sink,  in  .he  passion  of  impotenTlong^ 
faM  K  "k^  "'"'  r^ret  within  her.  Her  loose  tofr 
fells  about  her;  great  sobs  tear  their  way  un  frL  hèr 
heart  and  shake  her  from  head  to  foot  ;  the  velv«  rs  wet 
ÂesitL'^f^,"^^-  j^»'î--'"'»e«'edarkhoùrso 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 
"OH!    SERPENT    HEART    HID    WITH    A    FLOWERING 

face!" 

lADY  VALENTINE,"  says  a  somber  voicc, 
be  good  enough  to  Ict  me  say  a  word  to 
you.  ' 

Polores,  leaning  over  the  wire  rail  that 
^parâtes  eue  ofthe^ifQueelJVnn^^^^^^^ 
park,  turns  her  head  carelessly,  but  does  not  ctherwi^ 


t  r 


v3<  (  î^ 


rill  twist  it 

[er  mistress 

•urying  her 

she  cries 

of  herfelf. 
roicq  is  in 
him  !  she 
he  realizes 
utely,  how 

^  up,  her 
heaven  on 
Lowerand 
>tent  long- 
oose  hair 
from  her 
vet  is  wet 
:  hours  of 
lousehold 
il  of  tears 


>WERING 


er  voicc, 
Word  to 

rail  that 


rom  the 
therwise 


O^/    SERPENT  HEARTt 


$6$ 

besideher,hergloriousha1rf»M^  ?  À"^  ""  ">«  8«" 
fashioo.  rippIif/Town'h  .""^k"  '"  «« ---'™ined 
white  dress,  for  the  May  morS  ifl!  '  "  "^"'P 

and  in  the  blue  ribhnn  ^^^     '^  «Wwarm  and  Sunny, 

thrust  a  second  y^,''runchof'''t ''".'""'  "="'''  ^' 
n«s5.      In  this  rn^LT        '■  f'"''  *"<'  P-^-ple  sweet- 

a  moment,  struck  by  it  whh  =  ^alentine   pauses,    for 
punction  for  what  7Ji7t  '  °'  P"^  '>■«'  «m- 

march  "P  «o  the^t^k^  I^^dXb' ot^"  ^orothy  would 

foregoone  jot  or  tittle  of  duty     It  is  m^T""'  """' 
eleven  o'clock— T.rf  ,t,        .      '.'    "  '  '""'  forenoon— 

place  to  thetselvt    's^Va::  fnd  M^'-^  '"  ""^  '"«= 
ceptionally    lazy    oeonl^    .1  *""*  *''^''  R»"""  are  ex- 

luncheon,  to  the  silC^i  '  r  .''"'■y  "PP»»-"  "««ore 
To  her  silen  ex^nê™1on%'"""'ï  °'  «iss  Valentin,, 
nominally  sheU^i^  '.'°''  "^aleyer  she  may  bï 

Sir  Va^^^^twife  SheZT^"'''  °'  '"'  '«"■-=  '^»"  '' 
the  baronet,  and  ff  thet-nrh" ''"^  1°° ''"""""« '"'«  <" 
CamiUa  als<;  '™"'  ""''  "^  '"'d-  of  Cousin 

of  manner  is  haf>a,rf.«.^  -^ yes-say  on.      But  the  ease 
pain  and  i4IS&  her  V  T'^"'""  '^''^''  <"     ' 

g-ded  at,  taken  to  taskfon  ail  sWe^^    Wh??''."'' 
crime  now?    Mis<i  V»i.L:  '     "''a'  is  her 

thei-dge  «n  ^ê  ben^hTf^"'^"  ""'  «P'«»«on  of 

puttVon  theÎlac^Lp-       "'  ■"""""■"  °'  "^'"^  -<> 

"A?d  the  sentence  ofithe^ouniT^-y^sy^^ 


^^ce,  and  hang^dTbrthë  n^  A»^  ^°"  ^®  **^«° 
thinks  Dolores,  filled  wit^H-  "fî^^"  ^'"^  ^^»d," 
wish  they  would-h  woTm  ^*^^'™^y 4prehensiona  «  I 
.  y  would-,t  would  shorten/the  miserjr,  and  tlot 


^^^■•./: 


!**<)'.-' 


*4 


.ir^SL 


— i»rvt<v.'"^>;sf,''' 


3^4 


^^/    SERPENT  HEARTI 


\xm  half  sô  much  as  this  perpétuai  faul't-finding  from 
dawn  till  dark."  "  .  *. 

'*Lady  Valentine,"  résumes  the  somber  voicç,'<'do 
youknow  how  many  days  it  is  si|?ce  you  met  Ôolonel 
Deering  first?"  .         ^ 

A,  "?^"^C'^'°^^'*'®''"^P^^''   "///«/is\hc^ir^dictment." 
Aloud.        No,  Miss  Dorothy,  I  do  not.     I  take  no  note  of 
time.     In  this  house  the  days  fly  on  such  rosy  wings,  that 
they  come  and  go  bèfole  I  am  awarç  pf  thera'    And  I 
never  could  count  worth  a  cent,  as  they  say  over  in* 
my  countryA  You   are   more,  cSrrectIy  informed,   no 
doubt.     How  n^ny  is  it  ?"    It  i.  a  flippant  speech  v  it^  is     ' 
meant  to  *)e  so.    .She  is'stung,   reckless,  at   bay.     Mîss  " 
yalentine  loQks  and  feels  unaffectpdly  shocked.     She  ad. 
justs  her  spectacles  more  firmly  on  her  polighed  aquiline 
Dose,  with  its  shining  knob  in  the  middJe,  and  regarci  ' 
her  young  sister-ia-law  through  them,  ^th  strong  and 
stony  disapproral.  ^  #«'' 

_    "  You  take  this  tone  with  me,  and  on  such  ^  subjeot  ?    f  ; 
Dolores  I  felt  inclined  to  be  sorry  for  you,  a  moment    ! 
ago,  you  looked  soyoung,^»*»-;-"    Mis.s  Valentine  cleW 
her  throat,  "so  child-lîke,)iAay  say,  so  ^most  irresp^> 
.  Bible.     If  you  answeij^me  likô  this,  I  shalt  regret  whkt  T 
^m  obliged  tosay  no-longei^It  is  pf^ctsely  nine  daVs; 
then.  since  Colonel  Deeri^P-st  saw  j^u  iii  this.hous^'>  •  \ 
and  Îj°,'  °^® .°'°®  "^^y^  ^^^  often,  may  I  asls,  hâve  you      - 

•     ".you  may  ask,  but  I  doubt  if  I  can  ans^er.'/'  her  fcooe 
is  still  hght,  but  à  deep  flush  has  risen  to  lier  cheefc     A 
flush  of  conscious  guilt,  it  looks  to  Èforothy  Valentine  of  ° 
impotent  anger  in  reatlity.     '?Let  me  see..    That  niÀ     ^ 
pext  day  ont  riding,  the  foU^Wing  evening  at  Brougbtoii 
Hall,  yesterday  at  the  rectory-oh  !  I  i^ally  c*annol  fe- 
meraber,  but /luite  f requently.     Whyr'i    She  looks  UD 
with  an  innocence,  an  *  *  -  ■ 


h- 


* 


ê^ 


unconscjoiasaftls^ 


«aw/  and  truetolife,  that  the  exasi^rat^  spinstertingï^.    ~^J        ' 
to  box  her  ews.  i^  4     .        .\        .       -1      ^ 


•  .  ■  ". 


ling  from 

oicç,  '<*  do 
;  Colonel 

lictment." 
lo  note  of 
ipgs,  that 
».    Aad  I  . 

over  in* 
■med,   no    , 
ch  ;^it  is 
ly.    Miss* 

She  ad.' 
aquilinp  . 

regards 
ong  and 

,<  »•-  >  ' 

subjeot?  §. 
moment  l^ 
ne 


h 


clelli 
rrespQo^ 
t  jvhat  ^ 
ne  days, 
s.house,  >  ■  .\ 
ive  you 


bertone 
eeï|.  A. 
ntine,  of 
night, 
►ugbtôn> 
not  fe- 
•oks  up 


^ 


t9 


',ifVna,  ^  %i  «' 


tr^tifV^^^ 


•^       OH!    SERPENT  HE  ART!      ^  ^    3^5 

«Why?  You  ask  /^//  Lady  Valentine,  vou  are 
playmg  with  me,  with  the  truth.  There  is  not  a  day  of 
thosenme  days  you  hâve  not  mef  Colonel  Deering  in 
your  rides.     Do  not  attempt  to  deny  it  "  «  m 

"Whyshould  I  denyit?"    The  blue  eyes  meet  the 
stem  W/«  with  a  quick,  fiery  flash.     «I  hâve  met  Col-/ 
^    onel  Deering  daily  in  my  rides.     And  what  then  ?"  / 

Somethmg  in  her  look,  in  her  challenging  tone,  dis- 
concerts  her  inquisitor.     Miss  Dorothy  cleais  her  husky 
hroat  before  ^eaki.g  again.     «  lï  ly  brother  knëw," 
she  is  beginning.  1  .  ' 

him^E^'r'  ^^^f"'  *^«  &'•«««»>  his  spy,  told 
him?  That  is  strange.  I  took  it  for  granted  that  was 
his  mission,  and  thought  it  such  a  pity  he  should  hâve 
nothing  to  tell  for  ail  his  trouble.  I  believe  I  allowed 
the  colonel  to  escort  me  for  the  very  pui^ose.  Ahd  he 
really  only  has  told  you?    Now.  I  wonZred  Sir  Vane 

*  You  can  inform  him  at  any  time."  ~ 

f^n!  ^^'^^,^^^'  ^«  yo"  **ean  ?    What  an  extraonlinary 
tone  you  take--what  extraordinary  Ihings  you  say      Are 
^ou  altogether  reckless-altogfjther  mad  ?" 

"  Another  difficult  questiog  to  answw  l  t.nuetimes 
wonder  I  Aonot  go  mad  under  hU  l  h«v«  to  endure.  Oh.i| 
Miss  Valentme.  Içaye  m^alone.  It  is  à  pity  to  wâ^te 
your  ime  scolding  me,  fKeu  you  may  be  so  much  more 
usefully  employ^d  over  your  accent  books.andtr^ 
for  the  poor.  I  hâve  not  b«eii  brough^  up  pmptdy,  you  ^ 
see-no  one  ever  foiind  f^„U  with  me  in  my  jSintil  ï 
was.  ôiarricd.,    Since  th<»n  thAt.«*^fc.-  k».>  V_Tr°"*  * 


wa^toarried,    Çmce  then  there'^M  been  nothing^ 
Mt-findmg,  and  that  sort  of  thing  does  &ot  seem^ 

p?li^'^  r  v"*    V  ''^T^''  "^f^  assioiilate  >hter  medicine. 
RecKTess  !    Yes,  ï  am'Éhj  t.,  Leave  me  alone,  M%^oii  , 


'^' 


â\ 


tiogléft' 


^'^ 


'*..  é» 


V.  i^ny  tummg  on  her  with  ^d^en,  hot  p^iîo^«do 

)^"polorc»-SoI  J^evlSr  thUi^t  so.    H^^è^    '  î 


**«/  f  i-»ÎV 


..».  " 


»  ^.<« 


■^ 


V'''V;''V     **■'■■  "■■  * 


!         « 


366 


t?.$r/    SERPENT  HEARTi 


ish,  hpt-tempered,  impulsive  to  rashness,  but  a  flirt,  a 
married  coquette — no!  Do  not  look  at  me  with  such 
fiery  eyes,  child.  I  am  sorry  for  you — I  mean  this  for 
your  good.  You  are  unhappy — I  see  thàt,  and  I  regret 
it.  I  may  seem  stem  to  you.  I  cannot  pet  you  as  your 
grandmother  used,  but  I  like  you— yes,  ,1  honestly  like 
you,  and  believe,  with  judicious  training,  you  hâve  it  in 
you  to  be  a  noble  woman — an  excellent  wife."  ., 

Dolores  laughs — a  sad,  incredulous  little  laugh 
enough.  "  Tbank  you,  Miss  Dorothy.  And  this  is  your 
idea  of  judicious  training.  Well,  such  a  wretch  as  I  am 
shoukL-toé  thankful  for  even  small  mercies.  And  you 
like  me  !  Now,  I  confess,"  with  a  second  short,  bitter 
laugh,  'U  should  never  hâve  found  that  out.  If  I  am  not 
in  love  with  this  dashing  and  dangerous  heavy  dragoon, 
where  is  the  guilt  of  an  accidentai  meeting?" 

"  They  are  not  accidentai,  Lady  Valentine,"  solemnly  ; 
"  no,  do  not  lire  up  again — hear  me  out — on  his  part,  I 
mean.  You  are  not  in  love  with  him,  but  he  fell  in  love 
with  you  the  first  time  he  ever  saw  you." 

"  Indeed  !"  There  is  something  so  suddenly  funny 
in  the  grim  Dorothy 's  perspicacity  on  this  tencîèr  point, 
that  she  laughs  outright  through  the  passionate  tears 
that  fin  her  eyes. 

'"  You  hâve  an  eagle  glance,  Miss  Valentine." 
"  I  hâve,"  with  increased  solemnity  ;  "I  watched  him 
that  evening.  He  looked  at  you,  and  at  no  one  but  you, 
from  the  moment  you  came  into  the  room.  He  left 
Camilla  Routh,  aad  lingered  by  your  side,  like  the  mpst 
devoted  lover,  ail  the  rest  bf  the  time." 

"Ah!"  exdaims  Dolores"  «?a^  we  corne  to  the  head 
amd  front  <A  mg  oâen«tosM^e  deserted  Camilla  Routh 
for  me  !  Yes,  atid  I  meaiflpat  he  should  !  H«r  motto 
i9  •  Slay,  and  sp««;  »ot  '-Jrihade  it  miac  fjor  thât  once. 
An(»*r  woo,  Mig8  yaAcntine.    There  woul4  bave  beea  ao— 


fftalt  UmvA,  if  I  kMi  iailed— if  Miss  Routli  could  I^yo 


f 


'hi-:--'n'J 


.-îsâ^J 


:  1* 


''§: 


-  / 


'4-* 


O^f    SERPENT  H&ARTl  367 

"That  is  beside  the  question.    Camiîla   Routh  is 
single— you  are  à  married  woman —** 

othër^trs."  ''^'''   '^^'^''''  "°^"'  ^"^  ^'^'^'  »^"'  ^^^      ' 
"  Do  not  make  nje  think  you  wicked  as  w<Sl  as  wéak,"  ' 

^  .  ,1!  .  ^lo^e^  Deering,  or  any  other  man.    You  will 
Mvll^fh    \^°"'-3^^"  «^^  being  talked  about  already.   ^       ^^ 
My  brother  has  not  yet  overheard-you  can  imagine  how 
he  will  feel  when  he  dôes."  ^ 

"Ah  !  I  can  imagine.     I  hâve  seen  Siï-  Vane  in  most      ' 
of  his  moods  and  tenses.     Does  it  ever  occur  to  him-to  ' 

you--that  I  may  feel  too  ?    I  am  not  in  love  with  your 
broth^,    cnesDolores.nowutterlyandaitogether^ck.  >i 

less,  '«but  I  am  his  wife.  Do  you  think  his  venr  prô-  ^' 
nounced  devotion,to  Miss  Routh  is  an  edifying  or  Lree- 
fi^  ^'^»^^^"  Miss  Valentiue  winces^-theg'^ound  is^sud- 
denly  eut  away  f rom  un<!^  her  feet.  She  takes  off  her 
^^nT  '  v^"""^  wipes  them,  ai^  clears  her  throat,  and  is 
silent.  You  say  nothing,  l»iss  Dorothy.  You  do  well 
It  is  a  poor  rule  that  wilî  «ot  wofk  both  ways.  But  I 
hâve  nothmg  to  do  with  that.  You  may  mean  well- 
kindly-I  do  not  know.  1^  I  wtti  say.  I  met  Colonel 
Deenng  fîrst  m  my  husbanà',  hou^.  I  infei-  then  he  is 
a^gentleman.  and  I  may  know  bià.     I  hâve  met  him  in  " 

\^^\  "u^"'  P^'^^y  ^y  ^^^»^«"*'  «°  «ny  P*«  at  leasL 
and'he  has  been  agreeable  and  courteous  as  any  sentie! 
man  may  be  to  his  friend's  wife-no  more.  I  am  no 
coquette,  I  never  will  be,  plqase  Heaven-not  for  your 
brother  s  sake,  understand.  Mis»  ¥alentine-f or  my  own 
And  now  what  is  it  you  will  ifave  me  do  ?  Give  up  m^^ 
dailyridealtogether?    I  will  do  it  if  you  say  so  "  * 

Mî«l   V  ?\-^  "^'^  ^  ^^^hiox  the  presept,-?  responds    ' 
Miss    Valentine.  more    fiofrly>  "  Caraar'c   ^\\^  XiulJ 


^ 


t     "^.^•"  «^''^«sî'np^tientÉolores,  «do  not  quota  that 
Ibeg!    Cœsar-swifé!    Il  she  waé  not  abW  r^^rko..: 


W; 


.'i^' 


waé  not  above  Veproacb 


"W^^^^^^ 


î»v 


^**   \       .  ^^^    SERPEÎTT  ÏIEART! 


for  her  o^^^manly  pride's  sake,  for  her  owri  soul's 
sake  why  should  she  b,  for  C^^sar,  or  any  other  man 
No  doubt  C^sar  amused.himself  well  in  his  own  way 
Had  he  a  cousin,  I  wonder,  with  green  èyes,  like  a  caU 
Is  my  lecture  over,  Miss  Valentine  P^weadly  ;  '"thcre  3 
hestv^etCanKlla  beaming.on  us  through  II  e  v^^ndow 
ip,  India  muslin  and  pink  ribbons.     Colonel  Deerhi^ 
:comes  toj^reakfast,  by  the  bye,  does  hç  not  ?    If  yo^  hTvf 
quue  said  your  say,  I  will  go  in."  ^ 

M-  "  Tî""  '''■f  "^  strange  young  "woman,  Dolores  "  savs 
Miss  Valentine,  looking  at  the  flushed,  fair  faœ  more Tn 
sorrow  than  in  an^er     « I  thirit  \t  \.  l    ù         ' 
Vanie."  ^  P^'^  y*^"  married 

"S6  do  I    .Qh  !  Mm  Dieur  the  girl  cries  put  clasD- 

ng  her  hands  with  sudden  passionatl  despair^  Î^So  ^ 

I.     A  pity,  a  pity,  apityj"  /         ^  '^ 

Koir^*"*'  ^.'"^*"  is,"  says  Miss  Dorothy,  half  alarmed 

tetnr^T^*  ^'^*'^h«^«-«-^-hem~incompat^S 
temper,  of  âge,  of,  thought,  of "         ..  ""«y  01 

h1  !ii^^!*^'  ^°"^'  .K"'^-^^^'  everything?  It  has  been  a 

thl  u' hS  ''"'l''-"'^  sLuld^now  that  better 
tnaii  1  ?    Hère  i*^pur  bete  noir  coming.  Miss  Valentine 
«nging,  too,  as  though  no  guilty .  passl'on  for  a  maS 

rr.     rfl""fî;^^'T-     Untilweieetattable,t™    ' 
ra^otr.    I  fly  beforethe  wolf."    She  lauehs  as  \h^  JriJl 

flowe.^  and  singing  to  himself  as  he  saunters,  seel  the 
whiteflymg  figure  with  the  amber  hair,  and  grin.  Dor! 
othy  Valentine  blocking  up  the  path  like  fIZ.ther 
dragon  guarding  an  enchanted  and  ènchaotingpCce^ 
.^»îT  ^'J"  '"ï!''"'  *^  "P"ft»  "«fine  ténor  voiS^ 
n  11°'  **"'  Do^'hy's  Binefit.  Th^se  are  to  MiM  ^ 
Dorothy's  suspicions  ears,  the  sinister  words  h;  singf /" 


•Roaebtoi,  brightiy  blowinir.'  ' 
*  Then  Vûgaag  thee,'  Jt  «piièd, 
•And  yodTl  qtticklv,«urt  asid». 

».        *  Il  .. 


\, 


.^.■■\'; 


I  «-.î 'il .-  ,    •!  ■^Jt^fi—t~  'i^^      ,-^i-^f  ri-^ftj-jf,  -t^-      -^  '*'^ l'-- ■^'»<(Bi;;5^'^}t^^fj'^ 


O^f    SERPENT  HEART! 

With  the  prickle  glowin^.' 

Rosebud,  rosebud,  rosebud,  red 
Rosebud  brightly  blowing."  ' 


369 


Unto  i!  H      .t^'t  ^  T^'  P^^^^«  «^yself  ahead  of  lime. 
Uota  the  day,  the  day."    Colonel  Peering'sdark,  brigh^ 


^. 


■      "  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Valentine  ?"  savs  this  au- 
daaous  dragoon   cheerily.    "I  am  not  beWnd     n.ri 

wuh  M, ss  Valentine  into  tl,e  house.      Ey*fytWng!hM 
h,re  .s  of  the  most  chilling  and  austWe  is  Miss  Va  en 

h»rrT"^' "■"  *"^  Routhfnplymalces  upfor  aU  ■      . 
hat,  by  the  warmtli  and  cordiaÏÏty  of  hers.    S,>  Vanft 
too,  seems  a  shade  less  sour  tlian  usuai,  which  fact  is  aS 

1^1,^™  of    '  'T  !f' ■"'  '^'"S  "»^  "is  plate,  inform-    •(. 
jng  him  of  a  marked  increase  in  the  yield  of  certain 

lateT;     «  Wt""  T  ■"^t"-"  """"  unproducTv: 
lately        I must  run  down td^lintbarrow," he^ys  "and 

see  about  ,t,  p«sently.     A  little  fortu»;  lies  in  thèse      • 

mmes^  properly  worked.     I  shall  attend  .0  it  at  onçe^^^ 

".h.     ■    ?"\    ^  ""'=*'  '  ''°P«-  Vane,"   says  Camille 
there  .s  Lady  Ratherripe-s  te^l,  to-mo^row  night     YoT 
must  not  miss  that."  *■  "  "'Sit-     «ou 

îmav^^H'.  •"  i  "^''  ^"^  "■""  clown  the  followingW 

hislMtersagain     «Challoner  speaks  giowinglyof  whT^ 
canbe  Jone,  witB  very  little  expenditufe,  eirhfr/'  4  > 

■^^..^T"  î"""  '°-""""™«'  nightVfirst  walt2es,-«fflr---r": 

Udy^Ratherripe!    Nonsense,  D^e."  Ce^fn^y'^^^ 
'  "  J^*^°  '"^y  ^  entreau 


«iM~ 


*^  ■?:  •.■■ 


r 


»7o 


O^/    SERPENT  BEARTl 


pendant  cutolniV  ,'''^°■'^  «"'"  a  great  star-like 

S^iinx  -r  ir:  f^  «-  .ootrd 

She  >.  a  brWe  ,„d  ahU  ?       J*L°"'    "^   demanded.  " 

•«en  no  more  -     ^^  ™^  """^  d«kne.s  «dAe 

SoBie  feeling— not  of  cour»  cb  it  wiP  h-         t 

Hieiml.  provide.  »irf  ~;„.  ^f?.l"r  ^*^  «"-^  ^'w 


««  •naos  fcere.  the  aster  of  nwny  eye^    She 


A^^ 


JË^^*' 


tié:  Soinc^ 
anded   ôld« 
as' if  they 
must  lead 
ouse,  wîth 
casti^g  of 
his  latter- 
love  with 
3uth.      la 
îl  stigma-" 
>net.     He 
fair  girl- 
lone  just 
will  meet 
vhere  he 

n 

atine  are 
î  taffetas, 
fie  Valley 
star-like 
ïe  Valley 
ride^like 
fairness 
ok,  and 
nanded. 
►afè,  the 
rherç  is 
last  ap-    . 
:  is  the 
for  ail, 
Q  them 
«ad4>e 

so.  but 


•V     ■• 


OJf/    SERVENT  ffEART! 


^ 


371 

lias  n^  desired  to  corne,  her  husband  bas  angrily  insisted  • 
,    she  has\not  wishe^  to  dance,he  bas  irritably  tl  h?/^^^^^ 
to  be  an  idiot  notto  attract  attention,  to  do  as  others  do 
Very  well-she  will  take  him  at  bis  ;ord.    \t  Ts  a  wife's 

he?t.h,:^^'     """î""^'  ^^^""^  scribbles  hb  na  Je  t 
•    t   ^^^^^,'s  "^«^y  times-tbere  are  dozens  of  asDirants 
sbe^biigbt  daac^  eveiy  dance  three  tinies  X^sbl 

■   Sbe  is  only  a  girl-and  tbe  music  sets  every  vouni. 

nerve  tinghng.    Colonel  Deering  is  pa,t-mast2  o^tb! 

'    2[^,^^„T;-^^f  ^"^' ^«d^shé  floats  like^  faily  or  a  ÏTrench 

girl    Sbe  floats-a  dazzling  creature-allTilWy  taffeLÎ 

Diue  ^es.  Colonel  Deenng  is  not  tbe  only  man  con- 
quered  to-nigbt-sbe  migb't  count  almost  Jmany  can 

IboutTtTr  ""  K^'  '^'^^^^-  ^"^  ^^«  tlTnk?  no'^^bfng 
about  it,  or  tbem;  tbey  are  ber  partners  in  tbe  dance^onf 
the  same  as  anotber.  Life  bolds  some  bright  nK)raents 
Ï^dt^^LT  ^^"^^  -''  '-^'''  evenLu^bTi::  . 

Dn  Jïh  ^""^T'f^  ^^^'^'  ^'^  ^"  *^r^  there,  tbe  stony 
Dorothy  as  Medusa-like  as  ever,  looking  grimly  at  alî 

tacL  st  f  "^'"^  disapprovingly  tbrt^gb  be/sp^! 
tacles.  Sbe  disapproves  of  ber  sister-in-law  most  of  ail 
of  Uns  glamoui^  tbis  dazzle  of  uncanny  beautv-tWs 
flasbing  son  of  .adiance  fit  to  turn  tbe  heads  of  aU  thèse 
fnvolous  men. .  JVhat  does  shë  mean  by  it  ?  Sbe  /s  onlv 
a  pretty,  fair-biiï«ed  giri  on  ordinary  occai^s-she  is  a  ^ 
b«iuty  to-nigbl  !    And  C?>lpnel  DeeringStu^doi^  ^ 

bide  u  ;  It  looks  eut  of  bis  bold  black  eyes  fo?  ail  the 
Vo^    °f  f:^^l^°.P^"  '^^'  ^^°^ Sbe  looks  roundtor 


*of  Dorot>"v -,  """'  '?■*"'  """"^-^  faoewea™. 
ZilrtTf  «^  Valentme  knows  very  well,  and  ha. 
quailed  brfor.  very  often,  slroog-minded  vesW  th«r  i. 


mes  to 
^    Sbe 


v».i* 


^ 


'  Wl"  '''^'  V  "'  ^    ''""'  ■■' 


373 


\. 


•*■/    SEXPEjfT  HEARTt 


over,  Colonel  Ôeerine  hi  „T,  tin  "5  ''"'^  ''*"'=«» 

f.ean,,oi,o^i:Xn"^hb:r„i',rrdT  «""  i;;^ 

A«iKe  me  out  of  tnis  room  Van*.  "  «Jt.^ 

able."  ^    ^"®  °^^^  ^ere  is  unendu*- 

upon  them,  tall  pots  of  flowerino-  sh„^7    ^  *"■« 

"  Vou  will  catch  cold,"heTy""1^nî  '"'  ''"T  "^""^ 
a  wrap."  ^   '      '  """  Sj^nd  get  you 

>eg.ec.4  di3appof„:7wo;t' """^""r '^^'^^^  • 

.ort  onht:St'  t!h     "*  "r  "'«"  '"^^-Sh  this 
*  iiiiug^|jeiore,  and  does  not^ikp  \t     ♦♦  vatu      ■     . 

.   matterwith  you  Camill«?"K«      1  :        W^hat  is  the 

Wrong  n^r        ^^'"^^^^^  ^^  ^^^^  sulkily.     "  vVfeat  i, 

,         "  Do^<«,  ask  !"  she  cries, Vntin/?-"  von  fnr     u       r 
hâve  wasted  my  life,  for  whose  sake  I  h^^l        ''^°'"  ^ 


to  your  fa<^--she  and  your  wifer     iû  ■  "^^^"'^'^««yo" 
«ill,  and  means  to  sUy—"      ■         ^^.®  ''  *'  Valentin. 


TUJ»     ï  'IL 


jealousy,      C 
'■  them  as 
ty  dancef 
r  her,  antf  ^ 

with  his 
sRouth's 

s,  almost 
'■  sight  of 

g  rouhd. 
epre^sed 
ogether. 
i^enduF- 

the  bal 
îy  stand 
)îo<ving 
yHànd.     .    . 
get  you 

I  could 
reraljlè,  '^^    " 

;h  this  ( 

is  the 
is 


honi  I 
n  into 
laid  !" 
)efore 
lawn. 
^«ien- 


îsyou 
ntiQ« 


1*1.  "  v"     V 


/?^/    SÊRpSlfT  HEART! 


373 

I  hâve 


««in'f  *"  'h",  "'''  '^*>''"  """^"^y»  "  sï^e  will  go 
said  11^  and  I  keep  my  word."  ' 

tonl'^f"fi  *''-°^^^''"  g°^«  o«  Miss  Routh,  still  in  that  tense 
tone  of  fierce  anger,  "  did  you  watc^  your  wife  to-ni^l 
She  has  been  w,th  Colonel  Deerihg  the  .vhole  evening  • 

'  ou  ""itlnÏ!.'r\"^"'^^°"^-^°"  hear?-scandf^: 
nnJ.  ^^"r^^"' "^^^^  ^°^"  ^^  °^«tter  for  ie  ?  I  gave 
"P  my  g.rlhood-my  youth-to  waiting  for  you  You- 
were  my  lover  ;  you  were  to  return  to  marr/  me  •  you 
made  me  swear-almost-to  be  true  to  you.  A^d  l'kenï 
my  word-fpol,  fool  that  I  was  !  How  did  y"  u  keep 
yours,  Vane  Valentine  ?  You  returned  with  a  bride  of 
mneteen  and  I  and  my  years  of  weary  waiting^^  for  . 
gotten— forgotten— forgotten  !"  .    ,  «     ^  ^^  ^«^ 

iS^A^t  ^°'^°"^"'  Camilla-never  forgotten  !    By  my 
saored  honor,  no  !    I  loved  yo,!  tben-oSy  you  •    I  lo^é 

than  you,  but  not  in  my  eyes-I  swear  it,!     You- are  thé 
one  woman  in  ail  the  worl^  hâve  ^ver  wisheS^  f"  m^ 
own  !     You  know  why  I  m'an!5ed  her-why  I  was  forced 
to  mariy  her.Vith  no  We  on  either  side.     b;  aU  mv 
Sw!.'   ""^  '"^  "^^"^^^  --^^  --^  you  to^ 

^tl^^'^'T  T°"^  '"^  ^^""^'^'^  impâssioned  speech;  they 
stand  quztealone  on  the  balcony-thib  modem,  m  ddle^^ 
aged  Romeo  and  Juliet-with  the  peaceful  stars  looking 
dovvn,  and  the  talUcacias  and  syringas  scfeening  them 
Cautions  even  in  her  excess,  Miss  Roûth  looks.round  td 
r^htrr-  ^^^V**»^"^^^  M«Routh's^yes  are  as  sharp 
as  that  of  any  other  cat  In  the  dark,  they  cannot  pieree 
th^  satin  ^raperies  of  the  open  French  wi;idow,  whe^ 

r^ZT!  '/^''l  ^T^u"^''  °^  *^^  '^^S^''  *  ï^y  and  genl 
and^e?«T  •  n  ^"^  ^^e^n'leman  is  Colonel  Deering, 
andjhe  Igdxis  r>nloi^J|yniy  Valentine.   '  ^ 


K„i*     I      ^^^evcry  '"^^«■irv^j  occ^v^inmiia  K.outnnrflwn- 
hâve  had  no  time  to  «y,  ^^811  been  so  rapid.  Coloneî 


Hiey  seê^CamilIa  Routhdrawn, 


'i^  'tJIL&^J^  I 


*pim 


"'V^ 


\^  ' 


374 


Oiry    SERPENT  ffEARTl^ 


Deering  starts  up,  honestly  shockeH  f„.  k        .  / 

fro.e„,here,  lookW  and  for    L"""''  "^'  »''«  "«■'«r» 

Vane  Valentine  is  sayinl  a'd  7  '  "'  "'"'"  '  '«"''  "«■■." 
dent  voicç  and  disbenêv?'  «sL.  T*  '*"  "'"  ""^  fri- 
and you.  I  love  you  cliir.  ,  ,'.'*"''"  '«'»'««■'  "»« 
if  I  lost  you  !■•  '  ""  '  '  ^-W  °0'  bear  my  life 

for  hi„,  and  che  LônU /;  CoTh'"  ""'^'"'^^" 
fnghtens  him.  He  touche,  fh.  7  T^  "  <^°"'Panion 
and  it  U  like  ice.  èhe  doe^  -f  "'"^  ^""^  °°  "'s  *rm, 
looks^s  though  she  were  stunner":  '°  *■""  "'""  ^""^ 
atrodous  words  that  faU  on  her "aV"' L^d'T,"  "^  ""' 
t^^epeat.and  draw.  Jr^I.h  h^taltS 

not  sSn  to  know  w/fàJï      ''  *""'  '"^  "■«  ■»°»ent;  do 

"Shall  .we  gb  back,  Ladv  Valcnfin.  >•■  i. 
very  gently,  motioning  toward  thrh    n      ''V'''^  »'"' 
And  then  she  seems  toco^e^2    ■  u""'""'  ball-room. 

scunned  torpor  int^  whrcrher'huTb'nd'fr /'i°'"*'^ 
hâve  struck  her.    "Do  corne  "l?»  ^'■""''  "^"^^^ 

""<■  co' = eT  r  -''<-  °'>'::'yo:rZ^sr  ^"^  =  "^'"• 

withageTJrefMndrrlblbi'eTe^r-   ""'  '«^''  "'*-'' 

W  ™e  alone,  CoSl"'^  tl^;'!' Hke  it^h  '  ^t'  ^'"- 
There  is  that  in  her  face  fhaf  o«  ^',    ,  .  ®  *'  ^®^'  ^ere." 

the  unuttembleasl^it  evln^^^^^^^  **^^^-    ^f  ail 

its  gay  sweetness.      Ihe  sTand  «^         '''  ^^^"""^  "^»»  '° 
^^r«rs,atthctaH^prant^^nre  balcony,  deS^^ 


4z<»-%itf,'v?-«.  •«■<  _^t<^  >  1    >  ^ 


-V-r 


t,"i 


I 

ake.  For 
he  stands 
ing  abso- 
hâte  her/' 
r  his  strî- 
tween  me 
ir  my  lijfe 

»el  Deer-  . 
uch  even 
mpanion 
his  ârm, 
liim;  she 
e  by  the 
lentine," 
'rom  the 

ith  two 
nent;  do 

« 

ks,  still 
I-room. 
3nv  that 
words 
;  "you 

there," 
lot  yet.      ^ 
hère." 
T.    He 
Of  ail 
'  meet, 
hinks. 
ighin 


now. 


CHAPTER  XXXm.  ^ 

«TJ  WA  OUT  WE  ARE,  MY  HEART  AND  I. 


^\     ^  .^^"^^  '  ^^"""^^^  ^^'ts  before  the 
stately  pomco  of  Manor  Valentine.  and  my 

maid^™/°"  '""  '«"^'hing  is  hère,  Partiett?"  to  her  ' 

Wks  stupid  enodgh  to  hâve  forg„;^^t:T'f  will  te 

.ha^Tly  stU?         •    ''°"  "'•^  °°'  "^"«P'  '  "OP»  '•■  »ore 
"I  am  not  asleep,  Miss  Routh ;  I  hear.    I  nresnn.,. 

ine  aress  and  adjuncts  are  ail  rio-ht  "    «v,^  ^ 

«heuloes  not  lock  at  Sir  Vtoe.  standing  harln     '^'" '  ' 


4fee 


«leps.    She 


nâfib 


V* 


lesslv  as  tn  »;™  M-     d"  °Î  '^^  °PP°'"*  "'""J""  »» ''st- 


V&'î 


? 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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fliotographic 

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3?« 


TIRED    OU  T. 


"  And  you  really  willnot  corne,  Vane  ?"  Camilla  says. 
"  Wcll,  of  course,  if  you  must  hurry  down  to  Cornwali, 
you  must.  Business  before  pleasure,  I  suppose,  though  " 
it  is  an  odious  motto,  and  one  you  need  never  subscribe 
to.  It  seems  a  pity  to  miss  the  primate  theatjricals,  and  not 
to  see  Lady  Valentine  as  the  peer|ess  Pauline.  Colonel 
Deering  will  play  the  love-struck  Melnotte  conamore^  no 
doubt.  Love-making  under  false  colorais  rather  in  his 
line,  on  the  stage,  and  oflf.  Well,  good-by  ;  I  shall  write 
you  a  fuU  and  detailed  account  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons, 
and  her  goings  on." 

"  Good-by,  Brqther  Vane,"  says,  austerely.  Miss  Dor-    - 
othy.     "Do  not  overwork  yourself  about  those  mines, 
"When  may  we  expect  you  honie  ?"  "  • 

"  Do  not  know— not  for  weeks,  it  may  be.  I  shall  ex- 
pect an  exhaustive  détail  of  ^11  that  goès  on,  Camilla." 
He  glances  at  his  wif e  as  he  says  it.     "  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  Miss  Routh  and  Miss  Valfentine  simul- 
taneously  answer.  His  wifè  alonesits  silent.  She  bows 
slightly  in  adieu,  but  even  this  ,without  lifting  her  eyes  to 
his  face.       ^ — 

"  Humph  !"  says  Miss  Valentine,  sharply,  "you  do 
not  b^d  your  husband  farewell,  Lady  Valentine."  She 
makes'  no  motion,  no  answpr.  She  might  be  deaf  as  she 
sitis  there,  for  ail  sign  she  gives.  She  is  pale  ;  dark 
shadows  encircle  her  eyes  ;  those  blue  eyes  look  singu- 
larly  large  and  somber  in  hersipall,  cnlorless  face. 
"  Humph  !"  says  Miss  Valentine  again,  and  glances  at 
Camilla  Routh.  Something  fs  wrong,  very  wrong,  g^ow- 
fng  more  and  more  wrong  every  day,  and'  very  likely 
Cousin  Camilla  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  Her  thin  lips  wear 
afaînt'smile  at  this  moment,  that  Dorothy  Valentine  % 
knows  of  old,  and  distrusts.  She  gives  it  up,  and  the  trio 
sit  in  perfect  silence,  while  the  carriâge  bowls  over  the 
hlgh-rôad  nrtiié  mfëetîôn  of  BfôugTïton  HàTl. 
.  Broughton  Hall,  the  family  scat,  wherc  boyish  Harry 
Broughton  reignslay||Wif  the  land,  is  elevcn  miles  from 


affts^rt 


imilla  says. 
Cornwall, 
»se,  thougph 
r  subscribe 
ils,  and  Dot 
e.  Colonel 
tamûrg,  no 
ither  in  his 
ihall  Write 
of  Lyons, 

Miss  D'or- 
>se  mines, 

I  shall  ex- 
(îamilla." 

y." 

ine  simul- 

She  bows 

1er  eyes  ta 

"you  do 
ne."  She 
ieaf  as  she 
aie  ;  dark 
>ok  singu- 
less  face, 
s^lances  at 
>ng,grow- 
ery  likely 
ï  lips  wear 
Valentine 
id  the  trio 
i  over  the 


% 


ish  Harrjr 
liles  from 


f: 


/- 


TIRED    OUT, 


%-k. 


V" 


377 


the  manor-house,  and  is  at  présent  in  a  state  of  internai 
commotion  over  sundry  private  theatricals,  to  corne  off 
presently,  under  the  auspices  of  Mrs.  Broughtom  alïd 
Colonel  Deering.  The  "  Lady  of  L3rons  "  is,  as  usua^the 
play  to  be  done,  and  Lady  Valentine  has  beèn  choscn  by 
acclaini  as  the  Pauline  of  the  pieée.  Whether  she  pos- 
sesses  i^e  slightest  iiistrionic  ability  is  altogether  a  sec- 
ondary  matter— she  is  the  prettiest  womàn  in  tlie  county, 
she  is  a  bride-  and  a  stranger,  and  young  llàrry  Brough- 
toD  was  beside  himself  with  love  for  her  ever  since  he  • 
saw  her  first — three  incontrovertible  reasons.  He  burps 
to  play  the  Claude  to  her  Pauline,  but  extrême  youth,  a 
bad  memory,  and  some  boyish  difiSdence,  stand  in  his 
way.  Colonel  Deering,  an  old  hand  at  the  business,  and 
froubled  with  nône  of  thèse  drawbacks,  doès  Claude, 
instead. .  -i 

Of  course  the  usual  trouble  and  heart-burnings  hâve 
obtained  over  the  cast,  but  ail  is  settled,  more  or  less 
satisfactorily,  the  rehearsals  are  well  over,  and  to-night 
is  the  night  big  with  fate.  The  ladies  of  Manor  Valen- 
tine are  not  to  return  until  to-morrow.  The  drama  is  to 
be  foUowed  by  a  dancp.  Miss  Routh  has  been  cast  for 
the  Widow  Melnolte,  which  part  she  intends  to  dres9  im 
pearl-gray  silk,  and  a  point-lace  cap  and  apron— notï^eît- 
actly  perhaps  in  keeping  with  that  eldeitly  person's  station 
in  life^1[>ut  decidedly  becoming  to  Mis^  Routh^  And  it 
will  enable  her  to  keep  a  watchful  eyeiifpon  the  fascinali^- 
ing  Claude  and  the  too-trusting  Pauline. 

The  cleven  miles  are  done  in  profpund  silence — ^tlireo 
Carmélite  nuns  vowed  to  life-long  speechlessness  could 
not  hâve  kept  it  more  rigidly.  The  two  actresses  study 
their  part  ;  Miss  Valentine  studies  them  throiigh  her  spec- 
tacles with  a  severecast  of  countenançe.^  She  disapproves 
of  them  both.    The  Mav  sun  is  «etting,  M  thay^^driva. 


the  noble  avenue  that  sweeps  to  the  Hall,  thé  dressing 

bellfs  clanging  out,  and  young  Squire  Brougfhton,  flrshed 

#nd  eagjcr,  runs  down,  th^  steps  to  meet  and  greet  them. 


'^.^ 


*■!. 


It; 


*>" 


.V 


mf^mmafim 


'mmmmmmmmmm 


■1 


r^ 


v'  'Si.  '    *  K»'  ''V^'%%' 


T*.« 


I    *' 


"■<*> 


.'  f 


378 


TIRED    OU  T. 


ctm'::'"  ""!"  ''"«'">'  ■■'  e-"  "is  haad  ,0  hi,  en-^ 
>  "I  hâve  been  on  the  lookout  for  the  oast  hnnr  '•  i.. 

•2"  /*/  ""'"  '"°'^'  ^"y  ValenUne,  a„dTl„,dhave 

Cu  a™  as  paltl!?."  """"^  '    '""'  "^  "<"  '"-  '  ^^pe  f 

-l'IÎ-^"  «fraid  you  are  not.  You  do  not  look  at  ail  well 
-  mean  not  l.ke  jrourself.  Perhaps,  thongh,  youTré 
only  tiired  after  the  drive  "  ^     ^ 

war7- foiVb'^f  "■ff^'^V''-  B~"ghtpn,  con.ing  for- 
Whv  ,hi     n    ^  "i  '    '^°'  ^^''y  Valentine,  snrely  t 

bTanrL'Iiy^aletreîsfortûf;^^^^^^^  -' 

in   T""  ?f"î^' «^^Ping  down   the  wide  oaken  FàU 
laughs  softly  her  silvery  tinkle.     «That  is  it,  S  UrZ 
Broughton  !   I  did  not  like  to  betmy  trust,  bût  y^^r  shlS 
eyes  hâve  found  it  out    Consider  •  a  bri^  of  1î?hI     ^ 
than^half  ayear,  and  th,^s  is  ^J^^^ZP^tà'^:" '"'''' 

ihe  blue-green  eyes  glancedbackwardover  her  shoul 
der,  as  she  turns  to  ascend  the  stairs. 

nal^^  wkT  ^f/^'^''  '^'^'''  ^°"  ^^«^  as  dismal  as  your 
name     What  will  your  adoring  Claude  say  presenthr  if 

présent  ••        ^^'^  ^"«' f^-S^t  the  absent  lover  for  the 

Dolores  looks  up  at  her-blue  eyes  andgreen  meet  in 
one  long  level,  défiant  gaze-the  g4  of  tw?rw°oril° 


\ 


14  ,TÎ^ 


-"i  ~  ■''i%'t,-;;yf-  ^'"'fi^  Jj 


mr 


d  to  his  en- 

st  hour,"  ho 
Tvould  hâve 
in  search  of 
ill,  I  hope  ? 

s  listless  as 
tterly  with- 
e  lad  lookf 

at  ail  well 
h,  you  are 

>ming^  for- 
e,  Sqrely! 
s  a  ghost  I 
vould  not 
î  not  such 
)re)|M|ui 

kpn^U, 

l,dàr  Mrs. 

our  sharp 

ttle  more 

1." 

er  shoul. 

lasyour 
Jently,  if 

For  his 
for  the 

meetyin 
'rdsmeq  ^~ 


^TIRED    OUT.  3yj, 

C.mm?  f ^^,78^^*'"  «^«^ys.    «You  a,e  always  right, 
Camilla.    I  will  take  you  at  your  word." 

She  does.   Bya  great  effort  shethrowsoff  herïanguor 

her  gloom,  and  gives  herself  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  houn 

'    This  is  no  time  for  memory,  no  place  for  cruelly-stung 

and  spurred  hearts.    Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.    "Gather 

ye  roses  while  ye  may."    Vane  Valentine  is  out  of  her 

Faalts  est  deuensus  Averni-ÙCxs  poor  Dolores  cai,  go  the 
pace  as  rapidly  as  the  rest.    Presently  life  and  color  re- 
urn  to  her,  the  flush  of  excitement  to  her  cheeks,  its  firé 
to  her  eyes-the  last  trace  of  bitterness  is  gone.  / 

That  is  right,"  says  Harry  Broughton,  in  an  approv- 
mg  whisper.    "  I  knew  you  would  be  in  first-rate  form 
when  the  time  came.  Gad,  how  I  wish  I  was  to  be  Claude  - 
mstead  of  that  lucky  beggar,  Deering." 

"That  lucky  beggar  doesiiot  look  particularly  jubilant 
at  this  moment,"  retorts  La5y  Valentine,  laughing. 

o.  .K  K  ''  ^''''"'^  ^^  '^  ^"^^  ahundred  miles from  you, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  with  only  Miss  Routh-thé 
W.dow  Melnotte~his  mother,  b^  Jove!"  with  a  grin. 
Fihal  affection  ought  to  suffit.  '  He  can't  expect  to 
monopolize  you  ail  the  evening,  even  if  he  is  to  marry  ' 

anlf'''r??;\  ^}'^  ^^"'^  is'smiling  at  him  like  Z 
.  angel,  and  stUl  he  doesn't  look  grateful.    He  looks  borcd. 

haveT"  '  °"^*''  '°'  ^  ""^  ^™"s^'»*°'ic  cousins 

"I  ani  a  transatlantiç  cousin,  Mr.  Broughtoh.  if  you 
please.     Be  careful."  o        .      /«» 

ar.n'f  ^  ■'T,'  ^f  .^°"  *'*'•  ^"'  '*^®°  y°"  ""^  »  Canadian, 
aren  t  you?    looking  puzzled.    «Do  yoû  know,  I  neve; 

got  it  straight  somehow.  And  it  is  a  matter  about  whicb 
1  don  t  hke  to  be  muddled." 

'  ;;  Naturally  !"  laughing.  «  It  is  a  matter  of  moment'* 
Which?"'         '^""^  you  ?  Tanker  Canadian,  Freàch-:r~- 

«  I  don't  know,"  still  laughing.    «  I  gct  muddled  my. 


^«(^ 


.^- 


„..jf._^ 


W-t': 


'"'X 


.iiu,i...ii^.«.i..,ji 


T7 


:  /-^vi^îfn" 


TIRED    OUT.   " 


hmk  wi^a  spnnkl  ng  of  English  extractions  thro;n 

u         T,'^^-  Vàlentine  watching  us-^^  really  hadn't 

ought  to,  Harry.     Miss  Valentine  disapproves  of  laugh' 

ter,  aiid  we  are  laughing  sbamefully-I  ara  sure  I  do  not 

Squire  Broughton  makes  a  feeble  effort  to  adiust  u 
glass  to  one  eye,  and  stares  across  at  the  stem  virgin 
down  the  table.  "Rum  old  girl,"  he  thinks,  for  in  lis 
XTî^f^Trr  '^•^«"thful  heir  is  slangy.  "  I  wônder 
what  it  feels  hke  to  be  a  veneraÉe  fossil  like  that;  and 
ugly  enough  to  be  ^et  up  in  a  corn-field.    What  business 

haïr  !    Should  think  you  would  find  it  rather-aw-flat- 

îr?'  A^f^''  *^°"^'  ^°°^^°^  ^'^  compassion  at  his 
fair  fnenâ,«to  ^  much  of  that  lady.  Elderly  parties 
of  that  stnpe  prey  on  my  spirits,  I  know.  But  then. 
of  course,  you  hâve  always  Miss  Routh  "\ 

anH?^,^''^''^^^'  ^'''  Routh," assents  Lady  Valentine, 
and  the  smile  that  goes  with  the  words  puzzles  the  simple 
brain  of  young  Broughton.  -Au  revoir,  H^ry  •  your 
mamma  gives  the  signal.  Dôn't  stay  long,"  she  whi'spers. 
coquettishly,  as  she  rises\o  go.  cwnispers, 

f.u^^'TJ"  r°.- '"^  ^""^  staying-the  gentlemen  speedily 
follow  the  ladies  and  the  stage  is  cleared  for  action 
A  last  hurned  rehearsal  is  gabbled  through,  while  the 
gaests  gather  ;  there  is  no  time  for  anything  but  the  play. 
Everybody  runs  about,  chattering  their  speeches  franti- 
cally,  with  httle  books  in  their  hiûds.  The  roU  of  car- 
nages  is  almost continuons  now;  there  will  barely  be  tifee 
to  dress  before  the  hour.  A  very  large  gathering  are 
commg;  every  seat  in  the  amateur  ^heater  promis!  to 
be  full.    The  rehearsal  ends  ;  ther«  is  a  long  interval 

-ittto  tfacir  seats,  and  read  their  hin»  ^w«„-  i-__:.^    ~ 


luto  Uieii-  seats,  and  read  theiFlIïïr^nsTanjruidlv 
waye,  jewels  briUiantly  flash,  music  filis  the  air/  The 


M*%.v-.H5i 


i.^Kt 


.  iUîil9i(!^^.,ii,»^®M(»'^*'  '" 


'  o^im 


ail  three,  I 
ns  thrown 
lUy  hadn't 
of  laugh- 
•e  I  do  not 
ie  deepest 

3  adjust  -a 
ern  virgin 
for  iii  his 
*  I  wônder 
that;  and 
t  business 
l't  raise  a 
-aw — flat- 
ion  at  his 
ly  parties 
But  then, 

^alentine, 
he  simple 
ry;  your 
whispers, 

speedily 
>r  action, 
vhile  the 
the  play. 
53  franti- 
l  of  car^ 
rbetîôie 
iring  are 
mises  to 

interval 
d  fliitteil.,. 


tl^r 


mguidly 
ir.    Th* 


^' 


'A- 


>^ 


TIRED    buT. 


*^r;) 


aSt  I 


7^^r^t^^t'''  *"  ^'  ^^""^^  be  rit  remains  to  be 
A  1  .h    '  ^^^,^[«P-«^«^e  goes  up,  the  play  begins. 

ladies  and  gentlemen,  stricken  dumb  with  stage  fnVht  at 
s.ght  of  ail  those  ^atchful  eyes,  losing  eve^  atom  o 

■  "e^hoî^db/"'  'r.'°"°'  °'  ^'^^^  ^-"  voicesTarIns  and 
legs  hoinbly  m  the^ç^owners' way  ;  quiveringvoices  that 
refuse  to  be  heard^yond  the  first  row  of  seats     The 

meT^fThe^f  ""^^^J  ''r  "^  ^^«  '^«  '-«  most  audSe 
men  of  the  troupe.     For  the  ladies-Pauline  does  fairly 

^em^o  find°h  ^V^!.^"'!^"''"  ^^^  '°  ^''  ^«^  does  not  ' 
seem  to  find  her  hands  and^rms  an  incumbrance.    Il  is 

r^«n  V    "'  /Ppearance,  it  will  be  remembered  ;   the 
recollecuon  of  that  last  time,  when  shei^ore  the  drêss  of 

w^tchern        âr"  ?'  ^^"^  ^"d  gmndmamma  sat  and 
Tnce     B»     ?  beforeher  with  a  cruel  pang  more  than 

fZn^   .      .  r"  T  ^"^  '°  ^^"«^  ^^  «ïd  times,  or  old 
friends,  to-night;  the  présent  is  ail  she  èan  attend  to 
She  is  received  and  rewarded  with  great  applausland 
many  bouquets,  and  much  soft  clapping of  gC  hands 
On  the  whole,  the  Pauline  and  cTaud^e  of^  the  evening 
are^a  success,  and  the  leaven  that  lightens  the  wholf 

•,  "i?"l  ^°*'  ^""^^  Valentine  and  Colonel  Deering  it 
would  be  a  sicnal  failnr*»"  i»  *u^  •  ^^""S  w 
«Anrf«>,o„^  ^       laiiure,     is   the  u  m  versai  verdict 

speaks  and  looks  his  part  to  the  life.  One  would  think 
he  meant  ,t  every  word."    «  Perbaps  he  does,"  is  the  sig 

tim^lrT-  "^«^"°g»>«beenhardhitforsom^e 
lime,  and  makes  no  secret  of  it.  Watch  him  when  the 
dancing  begins,  and  yoirwill  see. 


.^f^'^''^^^^^^^^-  Lady  Valentinedoes  a 
fcw  duty  dances  one  with  «Claude  Melriotte,"  of  courte, 
M  no  more.    She  pleads  a  headache,  sits  ont,  to  aÎ 


"M^^'^<-^''^^ 


iv.i.4'.ius.   v' 


^^^y-âfer.2ik>^^^^j^iMa«%°^'  ;iite  ''•''  ^  ■^i  ^f''" 


\y  ^ 


/.  4 


'jSa 


TIRED    OU  T. 


unutterable  chagnn  pf  at  least  half  a  score  of  soupirants. 
Colonel  Deenng  follows  her  lèad,  and  dances  as  little  as 
possible  a  so.  He  keeps  ne4r  her,  but  "  not  at  home  to 
admirers  ,s  wntten  legibly  in  my  lady's  eyes  to-night. 
She  keeps  close  to  Miss  Valentlne-and'  the  man  who 
could  make  love  within  ear-shot  of  the  austère  Dorothv 
would  be  something  more  than  man.    h  is  alloverat 

CT  •!?  ^^^^  '^**^°  '^  ^^'^°^  «^«  can  go  up  to  her 
rodm^tmlmg  th^e  white  silk  bridai  bravery  of  Madame 
Col  Melnotte  after  her.  Perhaps  she  is  losing  her  zest 
for  thèse  things-or  is  it  a  presentiment  of  evil  to  corne 
that  ^eighs  upon  her  to  night  ? 

Next^day  comesj,  andibrings  with  it  Colonel  l5eerin/ï. 
and  sundiy  of  his  brother  officers.    The  ladies  Valentiné 
were  to  hâve  departed  after  breakfast,  but  their  host  and 
hostess  urge  them  to  remain  until  after  luncheon.     Miss 
Kouth  yields  gracefully,  so  perforée  the  others  follow 
she  IS  ever  leader  in  thèse  small  social  amenities.     Do' 
lores  does  not  care.    Hère,  or  at  Valentiné,  what  does  it 
6igmfy-,t  is  equally  tHste  everywhere.    So  they  remaîn 
until  afternoon,  and  then,  attended  by  a  strong  military 
escort,  set  out  on  th<s.return   march,  home.    That  duîl 
feeing^of  impending  evil  weighs  upon  Lady  Valentiné 
stiU.    She  cannot  talk,  she  sits  silent,  listless,  languid. 
the  gaychatterof  Miss  Routh  falling  without  meaning 
on  her  ears.    She  hardly  cares  what  may  happen;  it  seems 
to  her  hfe  can  be  no  more  bitter,  no  more  hopeless,  than 
It  IS.    Herheart  lies  like  lead  within  her-the  brief  ficti- 
tioqs  sparkle  of  last  night  has  vanished  like  the  bubbles 
on  Champagne,     Life  stretches  out  a  dreanr,  stagnant 
blank  once  more.  K"«"^ 

Sbegoes  up  to  her  rooms  the  moment  she  arrives! 

Jcrai^a  Ann,  for  a  wonder,  is  not  there  to  meet  her. 

Send  my  maid,  please,"  she  says  to  one  of  the  house^ 

maw^jndthegirMooks  at.her  with  almost  startled  eyes 

-—''^Içif  yoûTpIëPev  my  lady,  Jemra^^ 


i  . 


L  ****■*!- 'i^^^^ïïljf      .    "b^   wi. 


f-fW'? 


s       ,^y        ^  ,..  .     -       .       -       •  ■.         -     -  .-.         '        ' 

7YJP^/J    OVT.  •      jg 

"Not  hère?"  pausing  and  lookine     "Brh»t  Ar. 
■"TJ,    ''°"'"*'    Where  is  she,  th^   What  do  you 

4^e";w"^l"'^'^'"'''«°-"»"'y-" 

,tandi„g-she  sits  suddenly  down  afihe^  „!l'l'  ^"" 
s.ck  and  faint.  "  There's  a  letter  for  y;-;?  Zt^^^^Z 
woman  goes  on— «there'«!  fm«  «1  '     ^     ^'    ^^® 

roc.  .afle.  ««i  cXUl^ ^ '«"oinr/wt^^tâ" 
went  last  evening  about  an  hour  after  fon"         ^^    ^^ 

"My  ever  deÀrest,  dear  Miss  SN0WBALt>_H*.  c» 

«bleto  read  «hf^u.  I  ^l^TSind  w^Tn.""  "" 
hardly  see  to  set  down  ,he  words.    If  7  mafcé    "^'.h.r" 

wnte  to  you  from  there.     And  I  hope  you  wiU  answeT 
fh.»    r-  ^  K  ^     ^  "'  money,  so  don't  worry  about 

Shc  takes  up  thé  second  lutter  •  ît  is  shorter 


•^•fe-' 


r- 


Vourhusband,  Van.  Valent^V  -J 

—  \  ,-      »  ^ 


11^4?'**'  ""«.'"^ 


Ht- 


384 


.       .  ■    ■      :  ■-•■-•■  ■•••;:3:- 
OTHER    DAYS.  ' 


i 


A  sbadow  cotoes  betweea  her  and  thc  sunshme.    Shc^ 
looks  up  f rom  thèse  last  mçrciless  words,  and  sees  stand- 
ing  on  the  threshold,  a  sneering  smile  of  triumph  on  her 
face,  CamiUa  Routh. 

ot      •        .... 

'    -4-    ■;   '  — ^ — 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  NOT  THUS  IN  OTHER  DAYS  WE  MET." 

IT  is  four  hours  later.  The  down  express  from 
London  leaves  one  traveler  at  the  village  sta- 
tion, and  thunders  away  again  into  the  yellow 
sunset.  A  foreign  gent,  the  louftgers  at  the 
Station  s^t  him  down  ;  very  dark,  with  a  long  black  mus- 
tache,  and  a  certain  undefinable  air  of  cities  and  tmvel 
about  hiiii.  His  only  luggage  is  a  black  portmanteau, 
also  of  fôreign  look,  and  well  pasted  with  labels.  He 
mquires,.in  perfect  English,  with  only  the  sliglitest  pos- 
sible foreign  accent,  the  way  to  Valentine  Man6r.  A 
barefoot  rustic  lad  undertakes,  for  sijcpènce,  to  show  him 
thither,  «nd  afterward  carry  his  bag  to  the  Ratherripe 
Arms,  and  togethèr  they  set  out. 

It  is  the  hour  «  betti^en  the  gloaming  and  the  mirk," 
the  hour  oi  Ave  Maria  ia  the  fair,  far-off  land  whence 
this  stranger  and  pilgrim  has  corne.  The  fields  across 
which  his  guide  takes  him,  by  a  short-cut,  lie  steeped  in 
sheets  of  gold-gray  light  ;  overhead  there  is  a  gold-gray 
-sky,  flecked  hère  and'  there  withcrimson  bars.  The  sleepy 
cows  lift  slow,  larçe  eyes  and  regard  them  as  they  pass. 
A  faint,  sweet,  warm  wind  stirs  in  the  tree-tops,  and  the 
dark,  watchful  éyfes  pf  the  stranger  drink  it  ail  in—the 
quiet  beautyof  the^Wilit  landscape. 

"At  tbe  eveniide  thére  shall  be  light,"  he  dreamily 

i^i°^.!  -"  Qge."ishiJ^J^^  if  rural  pcace  and 

lovehness  were  ail."  '  -  ^■:         ■    -^.i^ 


hme.    She^ 
sees  stand- 
iph  on  her 


T." 

ress  from 
illage  sta- 
he  yellow 
ers  at  the 
»lack  mus- 
ind  travel 
tmanteau, 
bels.  He 
htest  pos- 
[anor.  A 
show  him 
atherripe 

le  miVk," 
i  whence 
ds  across 
eeped  in 
fold-g^y 
bie  sleepy 
hey  pass. 
,  and  the 
1  in — the 

ireamily 


■^  w 


,5'f 


<5 


*V 


OTffEU    DAt^ 


thè  shor.îcut  across  thepirtT,^  ■^«continuation  of 
Q«een  Anne  flower  «ardens      T^e  M      "  ""f-"'  '"« 
now,  and  he  pauses  tf  look  at  il^.^-^r''  "  ^  '«■" 

cnmson  and  gold  „est  upon  it,  eiWine  cli,nhin„ 

rn\ter^rpts^'âr^^^^ 

that  is?ha  °  e  ,eès     II'  ?  P™"'  ""''"  '  stm«  hat-  ■ 
Within  him  smnds  stm      '  '°'  "  '"°"'*"'  ""'  "»"■»*»« 

"  ThCrewitb  hc  laised  hli 

And  a  great  fire  within 

And  bis  hcart  stopped  awl 

Afainst  a  thorn  bu^  fair 

'*is '«»«f  s  désire  bi»  eyes  dld 

''**^* 'v^s  gaze.    He  is  by  her  side  lookin^ 


1  "r 


-£_ 


''"•♦  "/'WJWP"^! 


'> 


^ 


S 


0:- 


OTJÏMK   J>AYS. 


cm"  °"snrf  ??r"ï''  ^^*^°'*  passlonate  heart  in  hii 

o(  commg  Mpon  you  iike  thi..     f  wa.  8010^10  the  hoSe 
when  I  ohanced  to  see  you  berc  "    He  «,,1.     ew    2 
>^t  ans«.ér,  docs  „ot  .aL  .he' VlLnd'XhoWt  ouT 

,     prise^tor  weIcom»Jor  for  joy  ^ 

■ba-^telK^^ 

«  gre«  welcome,  a  great  joy.  She  give.  him  her  ha^S 
and  tears  well  up  and  fill  th«  blu?,  „d  eyes  «  ReneJ 
Rener  she  sâys,  aod  there  l.a«>b  In  thevX}  "  w' 
thought  to  see  j-ou  again."  '    '  °*'"" 

He  clasps  the  hands,  wasted  and  fragile,  and  IbolTs  at 
her,  ,nd  says  nothing.  He  ehlnk.  of  fhe  ûs^»?^." 
he  came  upon  ber  thft»  «uddenly,  a;nonetheRoS^W 

ing  then  l_how  différent  Iron.  thi.  I    Now-he  haf  iHo 
h,s  heart  to  invoke  a  curse  on  the  bead  oUbe  mw  wl^o 
K^  cbanged  her  liCe  thia     "Ho,,  whit.  youare!"  h° 
«Vs-"  l.ke  a  spirit  hère  in  thegloaming,  my  Snowtell 
Vou  do  n«  loolc  well.    Hâve  you  been  iîl,  Carier 
V     «"f   Oh,  no,(  sboaqsivers,  wearily;  «ramnerap  îll 
Do  not  mind  my  tooks-what  do  tbey  .gaffyT-^^r^t 
wbat  bas  brougbt  you  to  Eogland  ?"  ^    *°"^  '    '*"  ■"« 

m^^^  '«^  '^""^«*yr  "'""  «toW TôôT 


ïv/U- 


^ 


/- 


uS*« 


heart  in  his 
i>ound^  soft 
her  fcet,  and 
sye»  dilated, 
4  holds  out 
\  no  tbought 
^o  the  house 
She  does 
"hoWis  out  ; 
liock  of  sur» 

PthisSnonr-  . 
full  pfim- 
—this  pal^ 

a  whisper, 

!  blue  eyes, 
her  handsy 
.  "  René  ! 
>T"Iûeveâ 

-/?■  A- 
id  loc^c^s  at     \ 

dtbanft^^ 

ousx<?ja^é  ^ 
hergreet- 
e  haà  it  in 
mati  who 
i  are  !"  he 
>nowball. 
inar 
I  never  ill. 
— tell  me 


OTHER    DkYS, 


^ 


387 


rRen^^ene-berlh^^l^-^^'^^'^^"  and  e^ea. 

"What  isit?"shfeAalr«'    "V       1     . 
«omfethingto  say     Wh^,„  >^'"^  1°°''  ^  *'  you  had 
■    ,    Une,    uU^l^,^^:^y'"^^-^-ê^'^i-^V^\6... 

baid  bas  Kiven  her  h..,  ?.  cHt^  '  '  ""'  """"e^hcr  hus- 

wouMàrv:'treroT.s:r  r?r      ^ 

thM  /  should  betll^n!,  '  J^  '^"'«■^.  ''^'•d  from  the  first,  - 
i>ut  fate-hà"  tru  t  ruZte"^t°^^^^^^^^^^    '"'  ''«"-es. 

'n:'i"^^^s5rde!;*:^t..^t°h^x^^    î"'T  ' 

ways  for  that  rêa«nn      w       ^      ,  P*^*    ^  ^boose  it  aï- 

u/«ve.r„;;:rh^;tz.^^^^ 

grave!"  ^       w^corge  varentine  has  nsen from  hi^ 

-f-y»t  !"  >   :         ;    '  /      ^ 

«/île  nevef  was  drowned;^ott  know.  ^7t  wasafl  . 


J\  ^  ^ 


'.  '  r 


'-   .!. 


'"1 


.IJ\X    ,S„f<j*, 


\ 


|3»««— <— ~ 


a->->. 


'-U*  f^^r*^^^,  Vk* 


•  1^    r,  J^^   ,r 


-fy  THof 


388 


OTHER    DAYS, 


-'M 


Hc 


was   not 


mistake— that  old    story    of    long   àgo. 
drowneâ.     He  is  alive  to-day  »" 

She  sits  and  stares  at  hiin,  trying  to  take  this  in.  A 
flush  svveeps  over  her  face.  "René!  Oh,  René,  think 
wrhat  you  say  !     My  father " 

"  And  he  is  not  your  fatheV— that  is  where  the  trouble 
comeâ.  He  left  his  wifc-your  mother-within  a  year  of 
their  marriage.  For  five  years  she  heard  nothing  of  him 
—when  she  did  it  was  what  others  heard— that  he  was 
drowned.  And  she  married  again.  Your  parepts  are 
both  dead,  as  you  always,  until  of  late  years,  thought 
but  George  Valentine  lives.  You  are  no  kin  of  his—no 
drop  of  Valentine  Blood  flows  in  your  veins." 

She  sits  and  listens,  and  looks  pale  with  consternation 
and  amaze— though  slowly  it  dawns  upon  her,  this  that 
she  hears.  "  Then  grandmamma  was  deceived,  I  was  not 
her  granddaughter  afterall— not  her  heiress.  Oh,  René  ' 
René  î  if  she-if  I-if  he-Sir  Vane-had  but  known 
that  !  She  stops  and  covers  her  face  for  a  moment  with 
^  her  hands.  f^oc  Madam  Valentine's  heiress— if  she  had 
>  but  known  that  î  She  raight  hâve  been  free  to-day.  or— 
Rene's  wife. 

"  If  we  had  but  known,"  René  echoes,  sadly.     "It  has 
been  a  fatal  mistake.     It  would  hâve  been  better.  I  some- 
^m«»^ think,  if,  at  this  late  day,  it  were  unknown  still.^ 
But  George  Valentine  llves,  and  what  he  has  lost  may  be 
his  agam.      It    was    Madam   Valentine— not  he— wh» 
commissloned    me    to    corne   hère    and   tell    you    this 
Nothing  short  of  a  pledge  to  the  dyingcould  hâve  madê 
me  do  it.    It  is  a  slngular  story,  this,  I  hâve  corne  to  tell." 
^       And  he  tells  it— the  story  of  Paul  Farrar,  the  change 
.*^bf  name  and  identity,  the  escape  from  shipwreck,  the 
atter  life,  the  rcturn  to  Rome,  the  railroad  tragedy,  and 
tiie  recogniflon.    He  softens  every  détail  that  he  can— of 


-Aet  i»t>arej-7-oMtcriaThcr,  of  course,  tnerëirnbthing^ 

tell,     ffis  biography  is  of  the  briefest    ft  ' wfts— and  he 

^**'*V  J^®  repeats  Ma^am  Valentine's  dying  words— hert, 


^*'^i^- 


OTHER    DAYS. 


was    not 

lis  in.  A 
!ne,  think 

le  trouble 
a  year  of 
ig'of  him 
t  he  was 
repts  are 
,  thought 
''■  his — oo 

:ernatioii 
this  that 
was  not 
h,  René  ! 
\  knowQ 
ent  with 
she  had 
lay.  or-^ 

"It  has 
,  I  some- 
vn  still.^ 
:  may  be 
le — wha 
)u  this. 
ire  made 
totell." 
change 
!ck,  the 
dy,  and 
can — of 


3% 

conviction  that  Vane  ValenH'no  m,  . 
and  the  title  to  which  he  has  "  Th  /"''>  *^"  '^^«""« 
^  I^blores  listens  to  it  al^with  a  hal/dr."'  "^''-  ^"^ 
,  préhension,  feeling  giddy  with  th!  V  ^"^  '^'^  °^  ^o'"- 
convinced  thSt  it  fATj^C^^^'^^''''.  ^°  ^^^e  it  in,  but 
because  M.  Paul  is  the  iost  heir  and^r^""^"''^'  ^"^ 
niamma"  f^ished  it  on  her  dyihgbed         ""'"'"  "^^^"^- 

.      .-ytl;VlTo::^V't^-^^"^^^  The 

firesof  thesunsetarelaHnVfrsriL^P'  ""'  '"^^  '"^y 
that  dying  light,  some  of  the  ri^„^.  5^  ''^!,  ^"^  ^««ks  at 
to  darken  her  face  t,  1  "'  ^  ^  ^^ '''^^^^^  ^«mfng 
hardlyknows;  shrfeeL  aoSh'.r'^^^'  '^"  ^'^^'  S^'e 
.does  it  matte;?  G^ote  vl  .' '  P°°'  ^"  rich-what 
childof  thisunknown  mfn^f  °'^""^  ^^"S^^^»"'  «r  the 
what  does  it  signify  now  ?    ^h     '  "^"'^  ^^^  Randall- 

-ay^Vane  ValeiSneWife  ''nV1'~'°"^  "^'^"^     ' 
that    Other  thinffs  are  no  M        ,      ^*"^®  ^*"  change 

her  the  world  has^  oTe  ^o  aâTnd  "  T^^"^""^'  ^-r 
tells  her  of  are  outside  the  on!  •Tf-''^  '^'"«^^  ^«  René 
If  she  could  but  be  ri  a^ain  ?  T  'f '^^^^  °'  ^^'  '''^^ 
fettersforalltime.  Tetf^nklnH  'h'* '"  ^^'^^^  *«d 
go  as  they  list.  ^^^'^ank  and  weaith  then  côme  and 

-:^aghos,ainiost,inthi;;::s'.g^"^ 

-George  Valentine  !    W^i  if  i!t  '  .  ^-  ^*"^  ^arrar 

of  M.  Paul-he  was  alw^yt    ^TLl^"^-  ^^^ 
his  mother  knew  and  ior^uZw  î    P"""*'    -^"^ 

made  her  dying  hours  haTy,    Âh  rlï'  ''^^^  '  ""^  «»« 
'^^gHtihe  fortune  X  ^ft^^in^:^ 4^^  ^ 


fortune  -the  41^»,^^^^^^°^  ^^^^^^ 
cousin  wîll  give  then,  ,,^r  ^  ^®   thmk-lti« 

Im^'  P*»^^*"®» ;  hedoes  not"      * 

aoi,    She  says,  simply,  and  her  lai^, 


■fe 


«tj 


hing^cT 
■and  he 
is— hop, 


1. 


'ia,»-^*; 


._»itiii;.ï_ 


eeyeslook  »  .-«a 

-i'Jxi^WiMS..    I     'iThli  Mil     H  ilMl 


..ïV  -  — 


h-» 


---4 


T  '^^'''JlJi^^Hifc^^îft 


390 


OTHER    DAYS. 


pfx-'. 


!:-• 


at  him  earnestly  ;'  "  I  am  sure  he  will  not.     Will  the  la\f 
compel  him,  René  ?" 

••  I  think  so.  I  feel  sure  it  would  eventually,  if  George 
Valentine  should  choose  to  resort  to  law.  But  he  will 
not?"  / 

"No!    Thenwhy " 

"  He  has  no  hope,  Snowball,  of  getting  his  own  back 
again;  and  he  does  not  much  care,  I  think.  If  you  were 
happy  as  mistress  hère— as  that  man's  wife " 

She  makes  a  suddei^  motion,  and  he  stops.    She  feels 
she  cannot  trust  herself  on  this  ground;  it  is  best  not  to 
^  tread  on  it  at  ail. 

"Lcave  me  out'of  the  question,"  she  says;  **it  is  a 
point  of  honor— of  simple  right  and  honesty— not  of 
r  feeling.  If  George^alentine  lives,  we— I  havé  no  right 
hère.  Perhaps  I  wrôpg  my  hu3band — who  knows?  At 
least  we  will  not  prè^'udge  him.  He  shall  know  ail, 
and  thus " 

They  sit  silent;  they  know  so  well  what  Vane  Valen- 
tine's  décision  will  be. 

"  Is  M.  Paul  in  England?"  she  asks. 

"He  is  not  ;  he  remains  in  Rome.  He  îs  strangely 
sensitive  and  abhorrent  of  ail  notoriety.  Half  à  score  of 
fortunes  would  not  nuake  up  to  him  for  the  pain  of  tell- 
ing  his  story  to  the  world.  That  is  why  a  question  of 
'  birthright,  easily  enough  proven,  I  should  fancy,  becomes 
a  question  of  honor.  If,  in  thç  face  of  the  évidence  he  is 
prepared  to#'show,  Vane  Valentine  persists  in  keeping 
what  he  has  got,  through  you,  then  keep  it  he  must. 
George  Valentine  will  nevertell  the  story  of  his  reokless, 
erratic  life  to  the  world  throu^b  the  médium  of  an  end- 
less  Chancery  suit."  ' 

"Itislike  him,"  she  says.  Therels  another  pause. 
»*Where  are  you  stopping,  René?"  she  inquires,  sud- 


"  At  the  inn  in  the  villî^e.   I  am  going  up  to  LoikâtHli 
hdwevcr- 


H 


^àiJia^lStLkèitm'^h;  ■î*-,Li< 


k   .,iâ«5  i  S'A    A,.^"J*.i*'l''^v^l 


rt^^ 


on 


DAYS. 


391 


h  .cK     ;  •        '^'^'•^"P's  ;  "V  not  fôr  a-day  or  two.     My 

husband  is  in  Cornvvall;  I  wih  writetoJiim  to-nifeht,  and 

tell  him  vvhat  youhave  told  me.  Waithere  until  I  receive 

•    hisanswer.     Whoknows?    We  rèay  wrong  him.    When 

the  truth  is  fully  known  to  him ■'' 

'  Who  is  that  lady  ?"  asks  René,  abruptly,  «  there  be- 
ween  the  trees-in  the  pink  dress.    She  l^s  beea  watch- 
ixîg  us  for  the  last  five  minutes."  \ 

"In  a  pink  dress?    Miss  Routh  then,  of  course."  her 
délicate  lips  curling;  «  it  is  her  meiier  to  watch  me  always.* 
Yes  it  is  Camiira  Routh,  and  she  sees  that  we  see  her  " 
.     î.     Pî"^  ^^^ss  émerges,  its  wearer  advances.     Who 
is  this  ohve-skinned,  dark-mustached,  extremely  band- 
some  young  man,  with  whom  her  cousin's  wife  talks  so 
long,  so  earnestly,  so  secretly,  undcr  trees,  in  hiddèH 
places  in  the  park  ?    It  is  her  duty  to  see  into  this,  and 
cunosity  IS  nearly  as  powerful  as  sensé  of  duty  with  Miss 
Kouth.    So  she  comes  forward,  gathering  field  flowers 
and  feras  as  she  comes,  humming  a  little  tune-fair 
sweet,  artless,  unconscious.  a  picture  of  blonde,  patrîcian  . 
Bntish  beauty.    But  she  is  not  destined  to  be  gratified- 
it  is  the  rudest  repuise,  perhaps  Miss  Routh  has  erer  re- 
ceiyed  m  her  life.    As  she  draws  near,  Lady  Valentiné 
deliberately  nses,  eyinç  her  f ull,  passes  her  hand  through 
thearm  of  her  picturesque-looking  cavalier,  and  taras 
her  back  upon  her  enemy.    René  is  rather  aghast,  but 
there  is  nothing  for  him  but  to  follow  Dolore7lead     It 
is  the  most  cutting  of  cuts  direct.    Miss  Routh  stoo»- 
stunned.   ^  «.«4/0—^ 

«Do  not  corne  up  to  the  house,  René,"  Dolorcs  says. 
her  pale  cheek  flushing  painfully.  «  I  cannot  ask  yoiT 
And  do  not  corne  hère  again  either.  I  fear  tW  woman! 
When  I  hcar  from~him-I  wiU  let  you  know.  /believo 
whatyou  tglJinfr^say^toPaul-whatevef  tfaeiesuU 


s  3. 


inay  be.    Until  thcn— adieu  and  au  revoir  " 
:•    Miss  Routh,  watching  afar^  in  speechless,  furiou* 
.fûger.  sees  her  hold  eut  heiMb  hands,  set^  him  takd 


Jê^mtii'li  »r.A.' 1^*4-1111;^    _{^A, 


.y. 


';4;' 


'/A. 


*ï. 


.~v. 


t 

f  ■ 


'^ 
i'-*- 


^^^. 


:(' 


394 

thenlï. 


OTIIER    DAYS, 


s 


\  Bnd  hold  them  in  a  clasp  that  ij  close  and  long. 
Oh  j  that  Vane,  that  Dorothy,  thât  Colonel  Deeringwere 
but  l^ere  now'l  ^he  cannot  hear  a  word  they  say— more 
is  the  pity— making  a  second  assignation,  no  doubt.    Be- 

r  fore  she  sleeps  Vane  shall  be  written  to  of  this,  éhall  hear 
It  with  ail  t^c^additions  and  embellishments  that  malice 
and  hatred  can  add.  A  dull  glow  of  horrid.triumph  fills 
her  in.the  midst  ôf  her  rage.  Let  her  look  to  it  after 
this  !     It  is  the  young  French-Canadian  sculptor,    no 

^oubt,  of  whora  Vane  is  already  jealous.  She  has  lost 
no  time  in  sertding  for  her  old  lover,  now  that  her  hus- 
band  is  out  of  the  way  !  It  is  a  coarse  thought,  but  the 
fair  Camilla's  thoughts  are  mostly  coarse.  Let  her  look 
t©it!  the  insuit  has  been  deadly— the  reprisai  shall  be 
the  same. 

Tljey  part.  René  returns  to'the  village— the  two 
ladies,  by  différent  paths,  to  the  house.  Miss  Routh  does 
not  appear at  dinner  ;  she  is  busy  over  a  letter,  every  word 
of  which  is  freighted  with  a  venomous  sting.  She  likes 
hèr  dinner,  and  has  it  brought  up  to  her,  but  she  likes  her 
revenge  better.  My  lady  writes  a  letter  too,  before  she 
sleeps,  also  a  long  one  ;  it  takes  her  until  past  midnight, 
and  is  a  carefully  and  rainutely-worded  répétition  of  the 
story  René  has  told  her  under  the  trees.  There  is  more 
thanthestory— an  earnest  protestation  of  her  belief  iu 
its  truth,  and  her  perfect  willingness  to  resign  the  fortune^., 
to  which  she  has  never  had  a  shadow  of  right. 

"  I  do  not  fear  poverty,"  she  writes,  "  trust  me,  Vane  ! 
I  was  never  born  to  be  a  lady  of  rank  and  riches— both  , 
hâve  been  a  burden  to  me,  a  burden  I  wili  lay  down,  oh  1 
so  gladly.  This  •  burden  of  an  honor  unto  which  I  wa$ 
not  born'  has  weighed  upon  me  like  an  cvil  incubus 
from  the  first.  Oli,  my  husband,  let  us  give  back  to 
George  Valentine  his  birthright.    He  will  act  gêner- 


grrrjpore  thaa  gencrousty^  l^lcnow,  for  J  tenetr  vi»»^ 
•nd  for  me,  I  will  go  with  you,  and  be  in  the  day  ôf  dis- 
aster more  faithful,  more  fond,  morétruly  your  wife,  thatt 


ft«jji*j^î,al 


-\ 


393 


I  can  ever  be  weighted  down  with  wealth  to  which  neither 
of  us  bas  a  claim."  ..;, 

l  But  while  she  writes — her  wbole  heart  in  her  plea4lng 
words — she  knoivi  she  write?  in  vain.  More  of  hçr  woman's 
heart  is  in  this  letter  than  she  bas  ever  before  sbown  to 
the  màn  she  bas  married.  Âpart  from  the  misery  of 
dwelling  underthe  same  roof  as  Camilla  'Routh — with 
the  right  done  hoblv  for  the  right's  sake — far  away  from 
this  place  in  wbîeb  she  bas  been  so  wretched,  poor  and 
obscure,  if  it  must  be,  she  feels  that  a  sort  of  happiness 
is  possible  to  her  yet.  If  her  husband  is  capable  of  an  ^' 
action  at  once  honest  and  noble,  then  her  heart  will  ^o 
out  to  him — freely,  fully.  The  very  thought  of  hisdoing 
it  seems  to  bring  him  nearer  to  her  already.  If  he  will 
but  do  the  right— if  he  will  but  let  her,  she  may  care  for 
him  yet.  • 

Next  moming,  by  the  earliest  mail,  two  very  lengthy, 
very  disturbing  epistles,  in  féminine  chirography,  go 
down  to  Sir  Vàne  Valentine,  Bart.,  among  the  mines  of 
Flintbarrow. 


CHAPTER    XXXV.  „ 
«IT  WAS  THÉ  HOUR  WHEN  WOODS  Ali.E  COLD." 

|HERE  come  times  in  most  lives  when,  after 
long  dépression  and  wearing  worries,  a  sort 
of  révulsion,  a  sort  of  exaltation  of  feeling 
sets  in.  Such  a  time  cornes  now  to  Dolores. 
There  is  a  révulsion  in  favor  of  her  absent  husband. 
Perhaps  the  fact  that  he  is  absent  bas  something  to  do 
with  it     Lookjng  in  bis  gloomy  face,  it  would  séem  a 


'4^ 


■m 


"aîfBcuIt  thirig  for  any  woman  wife  or  oitherwisë,  to  get 


«%. 


up  much  sentiment  for  Vane  Valentine,    Her  ideas,  after 
ail,  of  the  sacrifice  demanded  are  vag^e.    If  Manor  VaL« 


.v^lifij^ias-'-Xi  i'j'\ 


\»i' 


H 


^394 


r^^    HOUR, 


entîne  and  the  fortune  are  resigned  to  their  lawful  owncr  ' 
jhe  knows   very  Ifttle  what  will  remain  to  them.    She- 
.  #oifbts  greatly  if  the  sacrifice  will  be  made  ;  it  will  never 
be,  at  least,  until  proof  «clear  as  Holy  Writ"  is  placèd 
before  him~that  is  tobe  expeçted.    He  will  be  enraged 
and  unbelieving,  beyond  doulît.     Still,  once  convinced^ 
and  she  is  sure  such  conviction  must  be  possible  since  M. 
Paul  is  the  claimant— he  catimt  be  so  glaringly  dishonest 
and  dishortorable  aç  to  retajtf  what  will  no  longer  iSe  hià. 
Dolores,  reasoning  on  thèse  points,  is  primitive  and  of 
another  world  than  this  ;  the  distinction  between  mine 
and  thine  stands  out  with  almost  startling  vividness  in 
her  unworldly  nîind.'    To  retain,  knowingly,  the  goods  of 
another  is  to  resign  hope  of  salvation  hère  and  hereafter 
—that  is  her  creed,  sharp  and  clear.     It  is  quite  in  her  to 
regard  with  horror  and  aversion  such  a  one.     For  à  hus- 
band  capable  of  such  a  crime  she  feels  that  even  the  out- 
ward  semblànce  of  regard  and  duty  must  come  to  an  end 
—that  for  him,  for  ail  time,  nothing  but  contempt  could 
hve  in  her  heart.     And  to  drag  out  life  by  the  side  of  a 
man  one  despises— well,  life  holds  for  any  woman  few 
tarder  things. 

But  if  he  does  the  right— oh  !  then  howgladly  will  she 
go  with  him,  to  poverty  ff  need  be  ;  how  she  will  honor 
hira,  how  hardly  she  will  txy  to  win  him  back.  She  does 
not  fear  poverty— was  she  not  poor  on  Isle  Perdrix,  and 
were  not  thèse  the  best,  the  very  best,  days  of  her  short 
life?  She  would  like  a  cottage,  she  thinks,  where  she 
might  reign  alone,  far  from  stern  Miss  Dorothy,  sneering 

j  Miss  Routh,  and  with  her  husband  alone,  who  knows  ? 
— she»»/*f^/  learn  to  love  him;  he  even  mightlearnalittle 
to  care  for  her.    She  would  so  strive,  so  try,  so  pray  ! 

,4nything-— anything  would  be  better  than  thîs  death  la 
life  hère,  this  most  misérable  estrangement,  this  loveless 


i>ou«V4hese  cold,  har d  faces.    A  ny  chaTige,  bg"trwti5ir" 
inay,  must  be  for  the  better.    She  will  try^at  least—the 


A*^.  * 


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395 


opportunity  being  given— she  will  do  hcr  utmost  to 
soften  atfd  win  the  man  who  is  her  husband.    > 

With  hopes  like  thèse  in  hergirl's  mind,  DoloreS  waits 
through  the  long  day  that  follows.  She  does  not  go  out  ; 
she  has  a  feeling  that  she  would  rathernot  meet  René 
again  untii  she  has  seen  her  husband.  SÈe  must  be  loyal 
of  heart,  even  to  the  shadow  of  a  shadow,  and  to  sit  by 
Rene's  side,  look  up  in  Rene's  eyes,  listen  to  Renc's 
Voice,  and  remain  thoroughly  true  to  Vane  Vafentine,  is 
no  such  easy  task.  If  she  gocs  abroad  she  may  meet  h'im, 
so  she  remains  at  home. 

The  evening  post  brings  her  a  letter  from  ^ondton, 
from  Jemima  Ann.  She  has  half  forgotten  this  faithful 
friend,  in  thinking  of  other  things;  she  feels  -self- 
reproachful  for  it,  as  she  reads.  Jemima  is  stopping, 
for  the  présent,  in  an  humble  Londori  lodging,  and  pro- 
poses remaining  there  until  her  "dear  sweet  Miss  Snow- 
b^ll  "  writes  good-by.  Then  she  will  go  back  to  New 
York  and  résume  life  in  her  native  land.  It  is  not  quite 
so  easy  to  think  wifely  thoughts  of  Sir  Vane  aqd  makè 
generous  resolutions,  atter  reading  this,  and  remember- 
ing  how  treacherously  and  stealthily  this  humble  friend 
was  forced  away. 

Another  night;  anotheji^ay.  This  day  certainly  will 
bring  the  absent  seigneur.  A  strange  nervousness,  be- 
gotten  oî  waiting  and  expectation,  hope  and  dread,  fiUs 
her.  She  can  rest  nowhere;  she  wanders  aimlessly  about 
the  house,  starting  at  every  heavy  footstep,  at  every 
openingdoor. 

Miss  Routh  watches  her  with  malicious,  smiling  eyes. 
.Sfe  has  seen  René,  at  least  ;  has  walked  down  to  the  vil- 
lage on  purpose,andchattedffor  fi ve  minutes xx>ndescend- 
ingly  ivith  the  hostess.  No,  they  hâve  not  many  strangera 
at  the  Armg  this  spring.  the  landlady  says, 


courtesy.  Only  one  just  now;  a  Mr.  Macdonald,  a  foreign- 
cr,  by  his  looks,  and  ways,  and  taUc,  in  spite  of  his  Scoteh 
name.    No,  sbe  does  not  kaow  when  he  is  going  awayi 


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lie  does 


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THE   HOUR. 


not  say  ;  he  is  a  real  gentleman  in  ail  Lis  ways. 
and  gives  very  little  trouble.  Mr.  Macdonald  appears  a^ 
the  moment,  walking  br^kly  up  theroad,  with  his  sketch- 

wn  ^^'^^fÇ^^'  *°d  1^««"  da'-k  eyes,  and  Miss  Routh 
hastily  pulls  down  her  vail  and  départs. 

The  day  wears  on.  Sir  Vane  cornes  not.  It  brings  no 
answer  to  her  letter  either,  and  Dolores'  fitful  exaltation 
of  feehng  vanishes  as  it  came.  ,À  dulLdepressiob,  a  fear 
of  the  future,  fills  her.  How  blank  and  drear  that  long 
hfe-path  stretches  before  her,  hère  in  this  silent.  dark. 
moldenng  old  home,  with  the  faces  of  thèse  two  womea 
Tn*  u  J'^^  ^''  before^er  every  day,  and  ail  day  Ibng  ! 
jnsulted,  distrusted,  uiiloved,>«/  shall  she  be^r  it  to  the 
bitter  end.  And  she  is  but  nineteen,  and  life  looks  so 
long,  so  long  ! 

Perhaps  it  is  the  «nusual  confinement  to  the  housc 
that  JS  telling  upon  her  ;  it  is  nqw  two  day^  since  sh« 
has  been  out.  A  half-stifled  feeling  oppresses  her;  she 
must^get  out  of  thèse  deathly-silent,  gruesome  rootna, 
or  suffocate.  It  is  after  dinner  ;'the  last  ray  of  twilighl 
is  fadmg  out  ;  there  is  a  broad  May  moon  rising,  and  a 
9tor-studded  sky.  **'  . 

She  leaves  the  house  and  wandersairalessly.forawhile 
bctween  the  prim  beds  and  borders  of  one  of  the  stiff 
Dutch  gardens.     Now  and  then  she  stoops  to  gather  the 
old-fashioned,  sweet-smelling  flowers,  bqt  almost  without 
knowing  what  she  does.    A  nightingale  is  singing,  in  a  ' 
thorn-bush  near,  a  song  so  piercingly  sweet,  somournful 
in  its  sweefness,  that  she  stops,  and  the  tears  rise  to  her 
eyes  as  she  listens.    And  in  that  stop  and  pause  to  listen 
sometlung  more   than    the  nightingale's  song  reaches 
her  ear-the  soft,  cooing  tones  of  CamiUa  Routh  pro^ 
aouncing  hçr  nanie.  ^ 

\  Dolores'  lover  ?  Was  he  really  a  lover  of  your  jvife's. 


■,me.J)e{oj:fi„you,jnarTicd  her?''«he»^  »  m^, 

thinor  mnn>  Invor-liL-A  ♦U-^  ^1 1  _     1       .        .  P'  •' 


th,ng|iore  lover-hke  than  they  looked  whcn  I  èurprise<^ 
j  them  it  would  be  difficult  to  fiod.    And  he  is  «O' hanë^l 


L^SiU  A   6 


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TIf£    HOUR. 


39t 


some-there  can  be  no  i^Ystake  about  that-with  the  most 
beautiful  Spanish  eyes  l*tl»ink  I  ever  saw."  * 

Thereisagrum|,ling^jV;  it  sounds  like,  "  Devil 
take  lus  eyes  I  and  it  is  in  the  voice  of  the  lord  of  Val- 
entine. 

Dolores  stands  quite  still,  thrilled  and  shocked,  feel- 
ing  ail  cold  and  rigid,  and  powerless  to  move.  A  tall. 
thickhedge  séparâtes  them  ;  she  wears  a  dark,  dtin-col- 
ored  dress  and  in  this  shadowy  light,  arà^ng  the  other 
shadovvs  of  trees  and  moonlight,  she  can  hardly  be  seen. 
They  are  walking  slowly  up  and  down  a  secïuded  avenue 
known  as  the  Willow  Walk.  In  the  deep  evening  hush 
even  Miss  Routh's  subdued  tones  are  distinctly  and  pain- 
fuUy  audible.  '         ^ 

"He  is  still  in  the  village,"  again  it  is  Miss  Routh 
who  speaks;  "how  often  they  meet,  where  they  meet,  I 
do  not  know  That  they  do  meet  is  certain,  of  course. 
Yes,  Colonel  Deering  has  called  twice,  but  she  has  de- 
clined  to  see  him  ;  one  lover,  I  suppose,  at  a  time,  is  as 
much  as  she  can  attend  to. 

'"  Old  loves,  new  loves,  what  are  they  worth  ï 
Old  love  dies  at  the  new  love'a  birth.'  " 

hums  the  fair  Camilla,  and  laughs  softly. 

"  Signor  René  is  far  and  away^he  handsomj^r  man  of 
the  tivo.  * 

«.ii"^'"T"/°''  ^f  f  ^^"8^  Tit^xm^  and  going  over  to  this 
^ipw,  black-eyed  boy,  Camilla?"  retorts,  with  a  sneer. 
Sir  Vane.  » 

.  "No,"  lightly.  "Like  your  pretty  wifé,  I  am  tnie  to 
my  first  lover.  She  «  pretty,  Vane-really  pretty.  I  aU 
ways  doubted  it-being  a  blonde  myself,  I  seldom  ad»iire 
blondes~-but  the  other  evening,  when  I  came  upon  her  by 


■.<-.    V, 


her-transfigurçd  l^y  gladness,  love~who  knows  whatî- 
ycs,.she  IS  pretty-Mrhen  she  likes.    JLconfess  the  woe- 
IXigooe  ç^piression  ^he  puts  on  for  us^^\j  becomes^lR- 


^  s#Sf^  ià'Jt: 


if- 


#> 


398  '   TITE   HOUR, 


People  are  beginnîng  to  talk— many  were  whisperîng 
the  other  night  at  the  Broughton's  how  wretGhedly  ill  and 
worn  Lady  Valcntine  iVas  loqking.  It  woùld  be  well  to 
speak  to  her  on  the  subjeçt,  I  think,  Vane.  It  may  be 
pleasànt  for  her  to  pose  in  the  part  of  the  heart-btfoken 
wife,  but  it  ban  harcjly  be  agreeible  ioryou" 

Something— a  sulky  and  stifled  imprécation  it  sounds 
li^e— ground  out  between  closed  teefh,  is  the  ahswer. 
MiSTRouth  is  an  expert  mouser,  and  knowslrow  toi  tor- 
ture her  victim  well.  ^1 

"But  about  this  extravagant  story— what  of  that 
Vaite?"\  '  •",  ^ 

Miss  Routh  appears  to  hâve  the  bail  of  conversation 
in  her  own  hands,  and  to  unwind  at  her  pleasure.  ^  / 
,  "  Something  must  be  done,  and  at  once.  HTg  may  dis- 
believe  it,  but  we  cannot  afford  to  ignore  it.  And  others 
Will  not,  if  we  do.  Once  let  it  get  abroad  that  you  are 
not  really  the  rightf ul  baronet— the  fightful " 

She  is  interrupted,  sullenly,  angrily,  by  her  com-- 
panion.  'f  I  do  not  propose  that  it  shall  get  abroad,"  he 
says.  -    •.  ' 

"No ?  But  that  is  this  Macdonald's  purpose  in  com- 
ing  hère.  How  are  you  to  prévint  it  ?  Your  wife  will 
see  him- " 

"  My  wffe  will  not  see  him.  She  shall  never  see  him 
again  !"  4 

"  What  do  you  mcan  ?"  breathfessly. 

"  Nothing  that  you  need  take  that  startled  toné  about,*^ 
suikily,  «  nothing  but  what  I  hâve  a  perfect  right  to  do. 
I  mean  to  remove  my  wife  qut  of  his  wày."    »  • 

"  Yes  ?"  eagerly.    "  How— where  ?" 

*tTo  Èlintbarrow.  My  mines  will  keep  me  there^  off 
and  OB,  for  months— years,  if  I  like.  What  more  nat- 
1"/^^' "  g"°'^y»  "^^^"J^h^t  ^°  adoring  jlbung  wife  «h^nld 


Wish  to  remain  wîfli  her  huàbaiid  ?    It  is  a  dismal  place,  ï» 
admît  :  ail  the  more  reason  why  she  should  enliven  rfiyreîii. 
f orced  ^xile  there.    The  old  stohe  house  is  out  of  rçpair/ 


/  v 


«« 


*4M(4^'i*.,;>  '■;'«';•; 


\-"r  • 


S99 


but  Avecan  furbîsh  up  two  oflhrec  ^ooms,  and  for  two 
lovmg  and  lately  united  hçarts,  wliat  morej^equired  ? 
And  I  doubt  if  M.  René  Macdonald's  beautiful  Spanish, 
French.  Italian— what  was  it?— eyes  will  illuminât^  the 
gloom  of  Flintbarrow  for  her,  though  they  wçre  twice  as 
as  shaip  they  are."  ■ 

There  is-silence  for  a  moment  ;  they  pass  out  of  range 
in  their  slow  walk,  and  the  sweetsongof  ehe  nightingale 
fiUs  up  the  pause.  For  Dolores— the  world  is  gfng 
round,  the  stars  are  reeHng  ;  she  catches  hold  of  the 
hedge,  but  fails  to  hol3heî-self;  and  half  falls,  half  sinks 
m  a  dark  h^ap  in  the  dew-wet  grass. 

«  She  wifl  not  go  ;  I  tell  you,  she  will  not  fro,"  are  t 
words  of  Camilla  she  hears  next.  «•  She  hîTs  a  great  deaî 
of  latent  force  and  resolution,  once  aroused,  and  she 
fears  a\id  dislikes  and  distrusts  us  ail.  Hère  she  bas 
fnend^— Colonel  Dpering,  the  rector's  family,  the 
Broughtons,  Lady;.  Ratherripe— to  whonTshe  mqy  appeal 
if  she  chooses.  There  she  will  hâve  no  one.  She  will 
not  go  !" 

^  «  Will  ^he  not  ?'•,  says  the  hard,  metallic  tones^f  the 
baronet.  ".Ah,  we  shall  see!  ^ou  jiuntedme  before 
with  my  impotence  in  my.own  hou\c— I  could  not  corn pel 
the  yoman  Jeraima  to  leave.  I  hâve  banished  the  maid  • 
I  shall  banish  the  misèrqss  exactly  how.  and  wben,  and 
where  I  please.  Meantime,  tell  Dbrothy  nothing  of  this  ; 
I  don  t  want  tô  be  maddened  by  her  questions  and  com- 

ments.    For  thia  Macdonald p" 

V  <rhere  isanbther  break;  they  pass  down  under  the 
willows.  She  who  crouèhes  under  the  hedge,  prone 
thçre  on  the^wet  grass,  makes  no  eflfort  to  overhear.  She 
bas  heard  enough. 

**  I  shall  take  high-banded  measures  with  Aim  "-Àt  is 
^  ft   voicc    of  -Vaae- Valentittèrotr-tfaq^etum   waîlcr 

ihereisalawtopunisb  sioundrels  who  conspire  for 
pnrposes  of  extortion  and  fmud.    This  Farrar— a  clever 
dear-headed  rascal  as  I  kaow  htm  of  oid,  a  vagabond  by 


'*:é- 


•  *»î 


» 


"S^^r-ç5K,  -jr 


'*•; 


£*^i 


--iJ' 


THE    HOUR, 


profession— ha^addled  his  brains  rcading  up  Rogci' 
Jichborne.  Geoi^e  Valentlne  was  drowned,  bcyodd  ail 
doiibt,  a.score  of  ■yt'art  agb.  Mcn  don't  risc  from  tbe 
dead  after  this  fashi.dn,  e«ccpt  in  the  last  act  of  a  Porto 
St.  Martin  melodrama.  I  doh't  jfear  thcm  with  my  cred- 
ulous  fool  of  a  wife  out  of  the  way.  If  it  got  wind  that 
,  shebelieved  the  story  and  was  on  their  side— well,  ï  can 
harïHy  trust  myself  to  say  what  I  mighi  net  do  in  such  a 
cascX  At  Flintbarrow  she  will  bc  safc;  at  Flintbarrow 
théi-e  ^re  no  lortg-eared  neighbors  to  listcn,  no  prying 
eyesto\sçe.  Thefe  sh^  will  be,T)érforce,  as  s>i^  as  in 
her  coiten.  And  there,  by  Hcaven,  she  shall  Temain 
until  she  swears  to  me  to  rcsign  ali  complicity  o^elief 
in  this  tlot—ay,  thoughlt  should  bé  umil  her  hair  is 

"  Shé  will' not  go,"  retorts  the  qt&tly  rcsôlute  voice  of 
Camillai  Routh  ;  "she  will  suspi^t  your  intentions,  she 
wiH  see  Vour  anger  agaipst  her  in  your  faccr — -" 

fThdt  she  shall   not,"  grimly  ;    "shé  shall  suspect 
nothmg.  \  It  shall  be  made(  a  family  af!air,     You  will  ail 
"corne  doWn."    They  pass  \by  again.    A  long  moment, 
Iheô  retUrViing  steps  and  Voices.    —"in  this  way.    I 
^^^^  ^•^'^'^•^'^  ""^'  ^  «et  Her  thcrc,"  with  a  laugh  that 
malfes^en  Çamilla  shiver.  \  "I  shall  doUbt  the  stoty,  of 
course,  décline  to  see  Farrar'*  ambassador,  refuse  te 
tett|to  a  word,  scout  the  ^olc^possible  romi 
Me^time  I  must  at  once  retiirn  to  Cornwall,  andÉa^p 
ifa>  désire  that  you,  and  my  ^ster  and  my  wifec^aè 
dow|ï  after  kneto  see  the  place.  \  What  can  be  more  riat- 
ufalf  an^ro^e  there-~^" 

■'f*®  ^vilMSî  ^*^®^*  ^'  ""**'«  «ïgnificant  than  any     ' 
^°  «1^    ^SBPi^^Ë^"^^^^®'"®*  through  it  ioftly. 
*    "  ^°  ®^!KBriiF^*"&'  ***^  ^^^  gîvé  you  crédit 
^'^^  *^  """^^^^Py-    Of  #y<e  Dorothy  ta  to  |>ft  lri>pt 


no  I 
■  the 


la  thC«^rl^^'^ 
^^^Qf  course.    She  bas  a  sort  of  lilcing  for  my  w^ 


,  4^^!^.^p^^^4^â^£|ïJ?M^. 


.t>J9^       ■«'  J*^i 


■H 


A'f^é 


K 


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/ 


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s 


THE    HOUR. 


401  d 


i: 


and  might  blurt  oqt  somèlhing.    She  will  Ilke  to  «ee  the 

'jgg  4re  we  to  remâin^  she  and  I,  I  mean  ?" 
jvîirtir  Iwo— as  you  like.  Of  course  I  would  b« 
^^  ^^  kjeep  you  theré,  Camiïla,  but  you  would  not 
ITIfe^  It^is  dbadly  dull  ;  tUe  nearest  liamlet  is  Hyfî  miles 
ôflf  ;  nothinç  biut  moors  behirid,  stretdiing  up  to  tïie  sky, 
an^  gie  sea  in  front  melting  mto  the  horizon.  '^  week, 
I  dare  say,iviU  be  as  much  of  it  a/s  you  will  be  able  to 
cxist  through.  No  one  will  wonder  at  Lady  Valentine's 
remaining  ;  it  is  ^surely  the  most  riâtural  tliing  in  the 
world  that  sheshould  rémain  with  her  husband  under 
the  circupistances.  Now,^erhaps,  we  had  better  go  in. 
I  Isaye  ntt  dined.  After  dinncr  I  shall  speak  toi)olores, 
and-^thc  rest  will  be  easy." 

Théy  pass  outof  sight  and  hearing— this  lime  there  ia 
no  return.  The  nightingaîe,  on  the  thôrn-bush  near,  has 
the  night  to  itself  and  its  5weet  love-song.     - 

.Colores  Jies  where  she  has  sunk— her  face  hidden  ia 
bfer  ^nds,  the  chill,  fresh-scentedgrass,cool  and  grateful 
to  her  heated  head.  She  is  numb  and  aching,  full  of  à 
cold,  de^thly  torpor— «past  hope,  past  care,  past  help.'^ 
Life  has  c.o<ne  to  an  end— just  that.  "  And  now  I  live, 
and  now  my  llfe  ia  done"— donc— donc  forever  and  for- 
ever  ! 

.>/lfter  a  ti^e^not  long— thoug|)  it  seems  long  to  her, 
a  physical  senâéof  discomfort  and  cold  makes  her  get  up. 
Once  on  her  feê^  she  stands  for  a  moment  dizzily— then 
turns  mechanically  ind  walks  bàck  to  the  house.  It  ia 
late  and  çhe  will  be  missed  ;  she  does  noC^want  to  be 
missed,  she  rs  hardly  cocfscious  of  more  theri  that.  If  she 
8uffers,she  hardly  realizes  it— in  soûl  and  body  she  ïs  be- 
numbed.  Much  pain,,  many  blows,  hâve  duMe4  fpr  the 
time  ail  sensé  of  ^^gnny- 


T, 


i  , 


r. 


They  are  ail  thrée  in  the  drawing-room  When  sfae 
cnters,  Miss  Valentine  bending  over  her  néVer-endiq^ 
t^ount  bpoks,  Miss  Routh  at  the  piano.  H<ir  fihgers  at^ 


}  * 


-A^ 


t 

T^£    HOUR. 

.  flying  over  the  keys  ia  a  brilliant  galop,  she  laughs  up 
m  Sir  Vane's  face,  and  chatters  gayly  as  she  plays.  She 
looks  over  lier  shoulder,  keenly,  at  the  nevv-comer,  her 
mocking  smile  is  most  derîsive. 

^^  "How  pale  you  are,  Lady  Valentine,"  she'  says: 
'whither  l^ave  you  been  wandering  until  this  unearthly 
hour?  See.'ourtruànthasreturned  in  youf  absence.  She 
has  pined  herself  to  a  shadow,  as  you  may  see  for  your- 
self,  in  your  absence,  Vane.  You  must  take  her  with  you 
to  Cornwall,  I  think  !" 

Sir  Vane  rises  and  cornes  forward,  quite  like  the  old 
Sir  Vane  of  Italian  days,  courteous,  if  cold,  and  takes  her 
hand.  / 

"  You  do  look  pale,/  Dolores.  You  should  not  stay 
about  m  the  night  air.  And  see— your  dress  is  quite  wet 
with  dew.  I  hâve  retuhied  to  answer  your  letter  in  per- 
son.  Naturally  it  annoyed  me.  How  can  you  crédit  such 
a  cock:^nd-bull  stdry  ?  Corne  hère  and  sit  down,  and 
Jet  us  talk  the  thing  over." 

He  leads  her  to  a  chair— woiiderfùl  cordiality,  this  ! 

—and  takes  another  near  her.    It  is  quite  a  lover-like 

tableau-Miss  Routh^gray-green  eyes  gleam  derisively 

as  she  glances.    Dolofes  takes  up  a'  screeu  and  holds  it 

.    before  her  face.  .  • 

"  The  light  dazzles  my  eyes,"  she  says,  without  meet- 
ing his  glance. 

He  looks  at  her  suspiciously.     She    îs  singularly 

startlingly  pale  ;  her  eyes  look  wild,  and  dark,  and  dazed 

— what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?    Has  this  story  and  Mac- 

donald's  coming  turned  her  brain  ?    But  his  voice  is 

smooth,  suspiciously  smooth  and  gentle,  when  hespeaks. 

She  sits,  th^'Sereen  held  well  before  her  face,  her  eyea 

V  fixed  upon  its  frïsky  Japanese  figur*,  but  seeingnoneof 

_JBgnkAjHls  voice  is  in  her  earT4i&hc4alks  steadily^iMftift 

oti--she  hears  its  tone,  but  is  scarcely  conscious  X)f   his 

words.    Miss  Rçuth's  gay  playing  fiUs  the  room  ;  she 

:  plays  the  "Beautiful  Blue  Danube"— his  monotonoui 


*4 


^SM:.^Z. 


■i^ypV 


^J"^-î^ 


V. 


\m^^ 


THE    HOUR. 


401 


words  set  themselves  to  the  gay,  brîght  music,  and  blend 
and  lose  themselves  in  the  melody — ail  mingle  tljcra- 
selves  together  in  her  mind  ;  nothing  seems  clear  or  dis- 
tinct. 

Is  she  assenting  or  answering  at  ail  to  what  lie  says  ? 
Afterward  she  does  not  knpw.  He  seems  to  be  satisiQcd, 
at  least,  when  he  rises  at  last,  and  leaves  her,jcrossing 
over  to  Camilla  Routh. 

♦•  Well  ?"  she  asks. 

"  It  is  well.  I  knew  it  would  be.  She  says  yes  to 
everything.     She  will  go." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  knows  what  she  is  saying,"  thinks 
Miss  Routh,  gla^cing  across  at  her.  "  She  sits  there  with 
the  fixed  vacant  look  of  a  sleep-walker.  She  had  it  whea 
she  came  in.  What  if  she  heard  us  talking  out  there  ?  It 
is  very  possible.    Supposé,  she  has — what  thçn  ?" 

She  looks  once  more,  trying  to  read  her  answer  in  that 
pale,  rigid  face.  As  she  looks  Dolores  rises,  and  with- 
out  ^l^cing  at  any  one,  or  speaking,  quits  thé  room. 

"  H'm  !"  muses  Miss  Routh,  thoughtfully,  resuming 
her  performance,  "  something  odd  hère.  The  end  is  not 
yèt  Your  wife  is  not  in  Cornwall  yet  awhile,  Sir  Vane 
Valentine." 

"  How  long  do  you  stay  with  us  ?"  she  asks  bim, 
àloud.  c 

"  Uptil  to-morrow  only.  Apart  frqpi  this  ia£Fair,  my 
présence  is  necessary  there.  Ry4)eing  on  the  gpot  I  save, 
no  en(^  of  money,  and  huriy  oti  the  worky'  You,  and 
Dorothy,  and  Doîor^  will  foll<^w — say  in  Ifwo  days.  I 
suppoàe  it  would  look*'  a  trifle  ftbrupt  to  ^u^ry  you  off . 
with  me  to-morrow.  Mèantin)e,  watch  heri;  no  more 
secret  meetings  with  Macdqnald,  if  you  can  by  any 
means  prevent  them.  ^  Corne  to  Flintbarrow  without  fail 


^tmthe  tWrthday 


a^ 


'l', 

^  I 


I.  m* 


A      '■ 


"  /  will  come,"  responds  mKss  Routh.    "  But  whether 


your  wife  will  accompany  n)é  or  not,  cousio  mine,' 
«dds  inwardly,  "that  third^y  only  will  tell  !" 


sbo 


■r 


.:,aâ&'f: 


'|«>4  \  ADRfFT, 


CHAPriR    XXXVI. 

"ADRIFT,  AS  A  LEAF  IN  THE  STORM." 

EXT  morning,  by  the  earliest  train,  Sir  Vane 
Valcntine  goes  back  to  Cornwall.     His  sister 
alone  sits  and  pours  out  his  coflfee  at  the  hur- 
^     ried    early    breakfast    that    précèdes   depar- 
ture.     Miss  Routh  is  not  an  early  bird,  and  Lady  Val- 
entine,  usually  up  as  «arly  as  Dorothy  herself,  does  not 
appear.     Sir  Vane  does  not  seek  to  see  her  to  say  good- 
by.     He  is  nervous  and  ill  at  ease,  and  has  no  appetite. 
This  "fraudaient  plot,"  this  "  trumped-up  conspiracy" 
disturbs  hira  tnore  than  he  cares  to  show.    If  they  persist 
in  it,  and  drag  it  before  the  world,  a  horrible  exposure 
will  be  the  resuK.     And  even  if  their  defeat  is  ultimately 
secured,  the  légal  expenses  will  be  something  he  shud- 
ders  to  conlemplate.     With  what  itfeeds  on,  Sir  Vane's 
love  of  wealth  grows.     If  their  defeat  should  not  be  se- 
cured—but  even  in  thougrbi^iïe  câniSôt  itnagine  so  wild  a 
posîibility  as  that.  "  Once  let  him  get  his  credulous,  ro- 
mantiG^^i|ey  out  of  the  way,  safely  down  in  the  lonely, 
sea-girt  illusion  of  Flintbarrow,  and  the  first  step  to- 
ward  safety  will  hâve  been  taken.     She  is  as  wild  and 
shy  as  a  fyâit^idge— as  ready  to  take  flighL     He  will  not 
disturb  heç>^is  morning  ;  she  will  come  the  more  readily 
and  unsuspiciously  with  his  sister  and  cousin,  if  he  does 
not  seem  too  eagei;.     After  that  he  will  know  how  to 
deal  with  M.  René  Macdonald.     Silence  reigns  at  the 
hasty  meal.    Miss  Valeotine  is  pleased  at  the  invitation 
to  return  tp  her  native  Cornish  wilds  for  a  little,  but 
Mis»  Valeotine  is  not  diflfusive  by  nature,  and  sits  grimly 

_and  silently  behind  the  roffee-pQt^  Desolate^laBe^  _^ 
out  frolii  the  world  by  far-stretching  moors  and  lègues 
of  dark  and  stormy  sea,  she  yet  loves  those  "  thund^ring 

^shores  of  Bude  and  Boea^"  aad  would  wUIin|^jf 


;  .:\  t. 


"•H 


1*^  f  ,;^«tp 


îT" 


■'•^w^ff 


/^: 


ADRIFT, 


40J 


''  '^«^■^'  '  '^ 


lier  position  as  housekeeper  of  Munor  Valentine  to  re- 
turn  thither  to  her  peaceful  life.  But  Vane  rules  it  other- 
wise,  and  Vane's  vvill  has  ever  been  Ijer  law. 

"  You  think  your  wife  will  be  willJng  to  go,  Vane  ?"- 
she  asks,  rather  abruptiy,  just  before  he  départs. 

"Certainly;    why  not?"   he  returns,   sharply.      "A 

Wife's  place  is  beside  her  husband.     She  needs  aj^hange, 

too,  aod  bracing  air— the  visit  will  do  her  good.     Sea 

""air  is  native  air  to  her  ;   she  was  brought  up  on  an 

island." 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Dorothy  assents,  thoughtfully,  "  she  looks 
as  if  she  needed  a  change.  She  eats  nothing,  and  fails 
away  to  a  shadow.  Still  I  doubt  if  Flintbarrow  will  help 
her,  or  if  she  will  like  the  place.  It  is  a  gloomy  spot, 
yoti  must  admit,  for  a  younggirl  like  her,  Brother  Vane." 

"She  will  hâve  to  accustom  herself  to  its  gloom.  I 
shall  be  there  to  bear  her  company.  Do  you  wish  to  leave 
her  behind,  to  amuse  herself  fiirting  with  Deering,  Do- 
rothy? Be  kind  enough  not  to  be  a  fool.  Hère  is  the 
trap— good-by.  I  shall  expect  you  ail  without  fail, 
remember,  on  Friday  afternoon." 

He  leaves  tlie  room,  bapging  the  door  angrily  after 
him,  jumps  into  the  waiting  trap  ;  the  groom  gathers  up 
the  reins,  and  they  drive  off.  Three  paire  of  féminine 
eyes  watch  the  departure,  with  very  différent  looks — Miss 
Dorothy  Valentine,  grimly,  through  her  glàsses  ;  Miss 
Routhy  with  an  inexplicable  smile  ;  and  two  sombeif  blu.o 
eyes,  dark  and  heavy-lidded  from  a  sleepless  night.  MiSs 
Routh,  in  the  freshest  and  crispei^t  of  morning  toilets, 
inidulges  in  a  stroll  through  the  village  before  luncheon, 
and  makes  a  cail,  in  her  gracious  way,  on  the  hostess  ef 
the  Ratherripe  Arms.  As  she  sits  by  the  open  parler 
wtndow,  framed  in  woodbinc  and  roses,  Mr.  Macdonald, 


lips,  passes,  and  glanées  in.  So  !  he  lingers  still,  then  ! 
She'  must  watch  well>  and  discover  yrhether  another  secral 
interview  takes  place  before  the  departure  for  Corawi^i 


îy-fSs: 


i 


■-^i 


r 


^if 


.^.^w 


"■^,  '.  "'  0-^ 


406 


ADRIFT, 


j* 


She  hastens  home  and  makes  inquiries.  Her  maid^  in- 
structed  for  the  purpose,  has  kept  an  eye  on  my  lady's 
doings.  But  there  is  little  to  report.  My  lady  has„»iot 
appéared  at  ail  ;  some  tea  and  toast  hâve  been  taken  up 
to  her,  and  she  has  declihed  to  reçeive  a  call  from  Miss 
Valentine,  under  the  plea  of  headache.  The  maid  is  posi- 
tive my  lady  has  not  quitted  the  house  the  whole  morn- 
ing  ;  she  has  sat,  with  her  sewing,  the  whole  forenoon  in 

\one  of  the  rooms  near,  the  door  open,  and  has  heard  my 
l^dy  talking  to  the  housekeeper  in  her  own  sitting-room. 
\  Luncheon  hour  ^cornes  ;  still  my  lady  appears  not. 
Miss  Routh  and  Miss  Valentine  partake  of  that  meal  in 
profpund  silence.  Miss  Routh  never  needlessly  wastes 
her  énergies  in  conversation  with  her  own  sex  ;  she  eats 
her^ncheon  with  excellent  appetite,and  thinks  her  own 
thoughts,  a  half  smile  hovering  around  her  lips.  What 
is  my  lady  about  in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room  ?  She 
has  no  faith  in  the  headache.  The  conviction  is  forcing 
itself  upon  her  that  her  talk  with  Vane  in  the  Willow 
Walk  has  been  overheard.  Dolores  looked  as  if  strie kea 
by  some  desperate  blow  whenyshe  came  in— what  else 
could  hâve  given  her  that  white,  wild  face  ?  Well,  and 
what  then  ?  If  she  goes,  it  means  imprisonment  for  an 
ÎDidéfinite  period  in  the  dreariest  old  house  in  the  world  ; 
if  she  refuses  to  go,  it  means,  of  course,  secret  meetings 
with  her  old  lover,  open  meetings  with  her  new  one, 
Colonel  Deering,  either  way  destructive  for  her  rival. 

'  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  she  half  hopes  it  may  mean  re- 
fusai to  gc.  A  few  of  thèse  stolen  assignations  in 
secluded  nooks  in  the  pàrk,  and — it  may  be  possible  for 
Vane  to  procure  a  divorfe.  Lucy,  her  maid,  is  a  spy  by 
nature,  and  the  only  servant  in  the  house  who  disiikes 
Lady  Valentine.  Lucy  will  watch  w^l,  and  who  know8 
«—who  knows 


.  He  is  t/«5'handsomë7'  Miss  Routh  thTnks,  a  greenisli» 
cvil  glitter  in  her  brooding  eyes,  "  ând  she  loved  him  long 
before  she  knew  Vane,  and  woi*ld  hâve  married  him  but 


«A/ 


r->t 


ADRIFT, 


407 


for  old  Madam  Valentine.  Of  courçe  she  is  in  love 
with  hitn  still,  and  of  course,  also,  she  hatès  her  husband. 
If  she  overheard  their  conversation  what  more  natuial 
than  that  she  should  wish  to  see  him  agàin,  and  tell  him, 
ànd  seek  sympathy  and  consolation.  "And  Lucy  will 
watch.  How  will  it  sound?— her  old  lover  cornés  ta* 
Valentine— I  surprise  them  in  the  most  secl.uded  naokSf 
the  park-land  ;  she  refuses  to  join  her  husband  ki  Corn- 
wall,  though  Dorothy  and  myself  go  ;  she  and  this  lover 
still  hâve  private  meetings  in  our  absence.  Will  it  be 
enough,  colored  as  Lucy  will  color  it  ?  A  divorce  would 
free  him— he  hâtes  the  bond  as  nafuch  as  she  does,  and 
once  free  he  >^ill  marry  me.  As  for  the  dead-alive  story 
this  Signore  Macdonald  tells,  I  do  not  believe  it.  Ca- 
milla,  Lady  Valentine!  Well,  since  Colonel  Deering  is 
not  to  be  captured,  it  must  suffice.  For  her— she  will  go 
back  to  the  outer  darkness,  with  her  Spanish-eyed,  hand- 
some  young  lover,  and  be  heard  of  no  more  !" 

Colonel  Deering  calls  before  dinner,  and  is  învited  to 
stay  and  diné  en  famille.  He  accepts— he  has  come  for 
that,  indeed,  and  for  a  glimpse  of  his  enchantress.  Miss 
Routh  is  maliciously  willing  to  accommodate  him.  But 
will  she  appear?  Yes— just  as  dinner  is  announced, 
Lady  Valentine  comes  in  and  takes  her  accustomed 
place. 

Camilla  Routh  looks  at  her  curiously.  She  is  dressed 
in  pale  pink,  and  if  she  is  whiter  than  usual,  the  délicate 
rosy  tint  of  her  robes  lends  a  sort  of  illusive  glow,  to 
eyes  not  toc  inquiçitively  alert.  But  she  is  very  pale, 
and  except  when  directly  addressed  scartely  speaks 
Ihroughout  the  meal.  The  conversation  tums  on  the 
tripto  Cornwall;  the  colonel  is  profuse  in  his  regrets 
thateven  for  a  fewdays  they  are  to  lose  the  ladies  of 
Valentine,  but^amijTla  nQ|tf  es  that  Lady  Valentine  holda  . 


IcrooTfrôm  tTiesu^ct,a.ncrcxp resses  no  feeling  in  the 
matter,  one  way  <^x  the  other.  AU  Colonel  Deering's 
«fforts  to  draw  her  into  ihe  gênerai  talk  faifs  ;  her  replies 


/■ 


-% 


■-r-»*. 


*     '  V^  v^  -tJ<LiJVy,%i>^ 


^'-^ 


'S!r>.~ 


--^' 


-.^> 


i  ■_ 


.408 


AAm^PTi 


(■ 


•  are  monpsyllabic,  hcir*  eyes  scarcely  leave  her  plate. 
What  is  sKe  thinking  of  ?  Camilla  Routh  wonders,  with 
that  pale  fixed,  ansmiliqg  face. 

After  Jinner  they  stroll  out  into  the  groun^s,  silvery 
and  swect,  in  the  starry  dusk  ;  that  is  to  say,  Colonel 
Deering  and  Miss  Routh  do.     Dolores  does  not  joi» 
them.     She  sits  by  oite  of  the  open  Windows,  her  hands 
lying  listlesslyin  her  lap,  the  somber  look  that  never 
iised  to  be  there,  that  is  g^irowing  habituai  to  them,  in  her 
blue  eyes.     Mi«s  Dorpthy,  at  another  window,  goes  prac- 
tically  over  the  week '9  housekeeping,  and  checks  the"^ 
tradespeople's  accounts.     Later,  when  they  return,  Ca- 
milla goes  to  the  piano,  according  to  custom,  but  ail 
through  tlie  musical  ^torm  that  follows,.and  until  the 
colonel,  perforée  départs,  she  never  quits  her  place,  her 
eyes  never  leave  tîie  dim  starry  landscape,  the  whispering 
trees,  the  falling  night.    She  is  pressed^y  himito  sing, 
but  refuses,  still  in  the  same  listless  way,  and  the  hand 
she  gives  him  at  parting  is  cold  and  lifeless.    "  It  is  good- 
night,  you  know,"  fie  says.  holding  it  in  his  close  cl asp 
"  I  shall  ride  over  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after  I  shall 
f^t  least  hâve  the  pleasure  of  coming  to  say  good-speed." 

She  makes  no  aiiswer,  and  wîien  his  briefer  adieus 
hâve  been  made  to  the  other  two  ladies,  and  he  turns  foi 
a  last  glance  at  her,  he  finds  she  bas  already  gone.       ^ 

Thus  far  the  watchfut  Camilla  has  been  foiled;  thefe 
hâve  been  no  further  meetings  with  lovers,  in  public  or  in 
private.  Ali  next  day  she^keeps  up  her  System  of  private 
espionage,  but  with  the  same  resuit  '  She^an  obtain  no 
Xîlew  to  Dolores'  hidden  thoughts,  and  she  certainly 
leaves  the  house  to  meet  no  one.  Colonel  Deerjng  calls 
accordiilg  to  promise,  but  my  lady  isengaged,  and  does 
n.-jt  seehim.  Herconduct  thèse  last  two  days  is  décorum 
it&elf.   Well,  time  wUl  tell  ;  t^ptyorrow  at  nine  they  start, 


ïKiniiÇTjy mis,  HâS  w-orkcdTief iêirîhlo~ârjfever  oT" 
curlosity  tp  know  how  ail  this  is  to  end.      ."  ^ 

Thislast  day  is  spent  in  packlng.'    Ladj;  Valeatinè 


«  1 


^ï*' ■*.*&«'»' 


^^v: 


ADRIFT. 


409 


has  no  maid  ;  she  has  declined  ail  successors  to  Jernima 
Ann.  Miss  Routh  kindly  presses  upon  her  the  services 
of  Lucy  ;  the  offer  is  declined  with  cold  thanks.  Still  not 
a  sigh,  a  hint,  a  look  to  show  jwhether  it  is  to  be  Corn- 
wall  or  not.  '        . 

The  last  night  cornes— goesj  and  the  morning  is  hère. 
An  early  breakfast  has  been  pfepared.  At  eight  o'clock 
Miss  Rbutliand  Miss  Valentiiie,  "booted  and  s^urred" 
for  thi4  trip,  appear  in  the  b/eakfast-room.  One  hasty 
glance  from  CamiUa's  green  ^yes,  her  heart  quickening- 
expectantly  its  calm    beatini^-Doloreai  is    not    ther^ 

Where  is  Lady  Valentine?"  deman^S  Miss  Dorothy; 

ïsshenotready?  Goup,  Dobsoti^and  see.  Tell  her 
wehave  but  just  fifteen  minutes  for  breakfast  as  it  is. 

*^w  n  P^^-^ '"t.  ^f''^"  goes-re^urns,  and  alone. 
Well  ?    Miss  Dorothy  demands,  witlTasperity. 

"  Please,  'm,"  says  Dobson,"  breathless,  "  my  lady'a 
compliments,  'm,  and  she ain't  a-goin*  »" 

"  What  !" 

"Which  it's  a  bad  headache,  'm,  and  she  ain't 
hup.  She  says  don't  wait  for  her,  if  you  please,  'm. 
bhe  says  she  ain't  able  to  go  nowheres  to-day,  please,  'm." 

Miss  Dorothy  adjusts  her  double  éye-glass  more  firmly 
on  her  Roman  nose,  and  glances  stcrnly  at  Camilla  Routh 
That  ypung  lady  shrugs  her  shouiders  and  sips  her  tea, 
a  gleam  of  exultation  in  her  cat-like  eyes.    «  What  doea 
this  mean,  Camilla  ?"  V 

"You  had  better  go  and  ask,  DorotTiy.  You  need  not 
glare  at  me  in  that  blood-freezing  fashion— /  hâve  noth- 
mg  to  do  with  it.  Impossible  to  acopunt  for  the  vagaries 
of  our  charming  Dolores.  Go  up  and  see  for  yourself, 
if  you  are  curions. ,  It  may  be  as  she  says,  she  may  pos- 
sibly  hâve  a  headache.  Meanti^e  I  will  finish  my  break- 
last.  ^^ 


^he  peurs  Hërs^fa  second  cup  of  tea.  But  her  hand 
shakes,  and  her  pulçe  beats  quiçk  and  high.  Not  going 
aftcr  ail  !    Miss  Dorothy,  much  fwrturbed,  takes  the  ad' 


18 


5  tu 


i!!?'v"'-V..^.'rij,; 


r 


If 


J.^l]'/*'^^^      %, 


^\    .         " 


410  ADRIFT, 


A.iJ. 


pr*'  ' 


I 


'  vice,  and  marches  up  to  the  chamber  of  her  sister-in-law 

Entering,  she  finds  Dolores  in  setni-darkness,  and  Dolores 

herself,  lying^  pale  among  her  pillows.   ,  Her  eyes  are 

closed,  her  han4^s  are  çlasped  above  her  head,  her  fair 

"  hair  is  tossed  aboutr— so  lying  she  looks  so  wan,  so  wom, 

*so  really  ili,  that  Dorothy  is  startled  and  alarmed. 

"  My  dear  Dolores/'  she  exclaims,  "  what  is  this  ?  Is 
it  possible  you  are  really  ill  ?" 

The  blue  eyes  open,  and  look  up  at  her.  The  dark 
circles  that  tell  of  sleepless  nights  surround  them. 

"  Not  really  ill,  oply  out  of  sorts  and  àltogether  un- 
fitted  for  a  railway  journey.  My  head  aches.  You  will 
please  start  without  me.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  to 
Cornwall  to-day." 

«ButVanesaid ^" 

"  I  know,"  quickly,  "  he  could  npt  foresee  this.  Indeed 
my  head  aches  horribly  ;  I  was  awake  ail  night.  Do  not 
stay  for  me-^with  a  few  hours'  perfect  quiet  I  shall  do 
very  well.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  and  Miss  Routh 
should  disappoint  him.  Do  not  lose  your  train  by  wait- 
ing  hère.  A  few  hours'  repose,  and  I  will  be  quite  we^ 
again.  Your  brotber  will  be  angry  if  you  disappoint  him, 
you  know."  J 

This  is  so  true  that  Miss  Valentine  winces.  She  stands 
more  thoroughly  at  a  lôss  than  ever  before  in  her  life.  To 
go,  or  not  to  go,  that  is,  the  question.  Which  will  anger 
Vane  most — tq  go  to  him  and  leave  Dolores  behind,  or 
to  temain  with  her,  and  disappoint  him  \  His  irritation 
is  certain  .either  way.  While  she  stands  irresolute, 
Camillaçomes  fluttering  gayly  to  the  rèscue. 

"  m,  Lady  Valentine  ?  So  sorry.   So  yery  inopportune, 
CQUsin  Vane  will  be^â  disappointed.    Still,  Dorothy,  it 
will  not  do  for  us  to  disappoint  him  as  well.    His  wishes' 
were  myst  positive,  ycm  may  remember,  to  go  to-day  with- 


"oîit  faîi.    You  had  bètter  not  linger.'   We  will  tell  him  6T 

I>olores'  indisposition,  and  of  course  he  will^ corne  for 

her  to-morrow.    So  sorry  to  leave  you  quite  alone — siicb 


•  ^  '  „' 


.'  v^ç^^;;;"f  ^  '•i;'r''''«^'^#%;*:^f^-- -.*•>*; 


mK*  "•".'  «!■'•«■ 


ADRIFT, 


4ÏI 


a  bore  for  you—but  it  is  only  for  one  day.     Cotne,  Dor- 
othy,  we  shall  certainly  miss  our  train." 

"  You  really  think,  then,  Carailla,  that  Vane  would 
•prefer  us  to  go  and  leave  Dolores?"  asks  the  perplexed 
Dorothy.  She  has  much  faith  in  Camilla  Routh's  opinion 
where  Vane  is  concerned,  much  faith  in  her  influence 
over  him. 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  Miss  Routh  responds,  promptly,  "  I 
not  only  am  sure  he  \jould  prefer  it,  but  that  he  will  be 
alarmed,  as  well  as  angry,  if  we  do  not.  Adieu,  Dolores, 
cherie~\iQ  ready  to  come  with  Vane  to-morrow.  Now, 
Dorothy  !"  Her  tone  is  sharp,  she  moves  away  impul- 
sively,  she  hurries  oflf  the  still  doubtful,  still  disposed-to- 
linger  Dorothy  before  there  is  time  for  further  discussion. 
The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  they  are  in,  and  whirling 
rapidly  to  the  station.  There  is  time  to  get  tickets,  to 
take  their  places  in  the  compartraent,  and  no^more.  The 
door  shuts  upon  them,  the  whistle  shrieks,  and  they  are 
flying  along  Cornwall-ward  âlmost  before  Dorothy  Val- 
entine  has  had  time  to  catch  her  bewildered  breath. 

"  We  hâve  done  wrong  to  leave  her,  Camilla,"  she 
gasps,  flurried  and  breathless.     •'  We  might  hâve  tele- 

graphed  to  V;ine,  and  waited  until  to-morrow!  '  We  hâve 

done  wrong.     Vane  will  be  very  angry." 

Miss  Routh  laughs— a  laugh  neîther  mirthful  nor 

pleasant  to  hear.    <*Yes,  Dorothy,"  she  says,  sweetly,  "I 

think  he  will.    But  not  with  us.     We  hâve  obeyed  orders. 

Yes,  hewill  be  angry,  and  I  think— I  think  with  reason." 
"  Then  why,"  demands  Miss  Valentine,  with  acçrbity, 

"  did  you  urg^e  me  to  come  ?    I  would  hâve  stayed  with 

her,  but  you  said " 

"I  said  Vane  had  ordered  us  not  to  stay,  and  I  said 

truly.    We  hâve  d'ôneas  commanded — he  has  no  right  or 

reason  to^âadiault  with  us.    To'morrowis  but  tHien^wg^- 


»» 


day— -to-morrow  he  will  return  for  her,  and  then- 

•"  WeU—and  then  ?"  says  the  elder  woman,  struck\by 
the  strange  look  Camilla  Routh's  face  wears. 


4? 


J^ 


^     \; 


é 


*&=':■ 


4"  ADRIFT,  \ 

"  And  then  he  will  bring  her  to  Flintbarrow— ^^rAç»*,'* 
answers  Camilla,  with  her  most  suggestive  smile.  . 

♦  '  «  «  «  '«  *  é    " 

Dolores'  excuse  has  been  sotnething  more  than  a  mère 
excuse;  her  head  does  ache  with  a  dull,  persistent 'pain. 
But  as  the  carriage  roUs  away  she  gets  up  and  dresses— 

^  not  in  one  of  her  pretty,  much-embroiderçd  morning* 
robes,  but  in  the  plâinest  traveling  suit  her  wardrobè 
contains.  For  she  is  going  on  a  journey  to-day,  though/ 
not  to  Cornwall — a  very  long  journey,  and  Manor  Val- 
entiné  is  to  know  her  no  more.  Thi^  is  the  end.  Ail 
she  can  bear  she  has  borne  ;  flight  alone  is  left.  Death 
were  better  than  what  awaits  her  in  that  desolate  house 
down  by  the  Cornish  sea.  Life  by  the  àidetif  Vâne  Val- 
entine  is  at  an  end  for  ail  time.  Outrage,  inst^i'sneers, 
neglect,  hâve  been  her  portion  from  the  first  in thisliated 
house — this  house  to  which  neither  she  nbr  the  man  who 
is  her  husband  has  any  longer  claim.  To-day  she  quits 
it  to  return  no  more.  She  has  thought  it  out;  over  and 
over  again,  during  thèse  two  silent»  secluded  days  ;  no 
one  shall  know  whither  she  goes,  not  even  René — least  of 
ail  René.  He  is  still  at  the  village  inn,  sheis  aware  ;  but 
she  will  neither  see  hïm  nor  write  to  him.    She  is  going 

«ito  her  one  faithful  friend,  Jemima  Ann,  waiting'for  the 
answer  to  her  letter  in  her  London  lodgings,  and  with 
her  she  will  return  to  America.  What  she  will  do  when 
she  gets  there  she  does  not  yet  know  ;  time  enough  for 
that  ;  at  présent  she  has  but  one  thought,  escape;  before 
her  husband  comes.  To-morrow  night  he  will  be  heré, 
angry,  suspicions,  more  sullen  and  despotic  than  eyer  ; 
her  escape  must  be  secured  before  that  time.  And  once 
away,  no  power  on  ea/th  shall  compel  her  to  return. 
Come  what  may — death  itself — she  will  hever  returi^  to 
'this  life  from  which  she  Aies.  , 


^%' 


i 


r 


"^le  dresses.    She  packs  a  sàtcHelwîOrsonîe  nefedf  liT 
things  ;  she  takesthe  jewelsgiven  her  by  Madam  Vàlen- 
tine,  and  money  sufficient  for  ail  présent  needs.    If  thèse 


./■ 


.*  ^t€î. 


W0'' 


rhaps^ 

i  mère 
t 'pain. 
!sses — 
jrning" 
■drobè 
hough  -» 
rVal- 
.  AU 
Death 
house 
e  Val- 
>neers, 
ijhated 
n  who 
i  quits 
er  and 
s  ;  no 
east  of 
e;  but 
going 
or  the 
i  with 
when 
gh  for 
before 
î  heré, 
eyer  ; 
i  oncÈ  . 
eturn. 
iri^  to 


z' 


'%■; 


«  ADRIFT, 


z*  "> 


-<.*^-c. 


411 


1 

things  are  net  hers,  they  are  not  «t  least  the  property  of 
Vane  Valentine.  Ai  M.  Paul  is  their  rightful  owner,  M. 
Paul  is  her  true  jind  generous  friend.  Then  she  rings 
for  tea  and  toast;  and  makes  an  effort  to  eat.  Strength 
isnecessary— courage,  présence  of  mind.  Hope  is  rising 
within  her.  Once  free,  once  wîth  Jemima,  once  far 
from  ihA^house,  once  across  the  océan,  once  fatrly  dut 
of  the  power  of  her  tyrant  and  Camilla  Routh,  and  she 
fears  nothiitg— neither  work,  nor  poverty,  nor  homeless- 
ness.  She  will  be  free  !  Her  heart  beats  at  the 
thought.  A  feW  weeks  more  of  this  life  would  drive 
her  ^d.  '■  " 

The  house  îs  very  still,  in  its  long  forenoon  repose. 
The  servants  are  engaged  in^their  various  duties— the 
watchful  Lucy  har  gone  with  her  mistress.  ^  No  o5e, 
notices  the  quiet  figure  that,  vailed  and  cloaked,  with 
hand-bag  and  shawl  strap,  leaves  the  house  by  a  sido 
eptrance,  and  disappears  amid  the  thick.  growth  of  the 
park-lane.  She  takes  the  short  eut  to  the  station,  along 
WhichRene  came,  andsfound  her  the  other  day — there  is 
a  I^ondon  up-train  at  eleven-fifty.  At  the  tum  wfiere 
the  path  branches  off  and  the  house  disappears,  she 
tur<is  for  a  moment,  aversion,  hatred,  strong  in  her  face, 
and  looks  back.  It  is  a  leaden,  sunless  day,  threatening 
raia^the  gray  old  Manor  looks  grayer  and  more  grue- 
some  than  she  has  ever  seen  it.  How  utterly  misérable 
from  the  yery  first  she  has  been  there  ^  With  a  shudder 
she  turns' away,  pulls  her  vail  over  her  face,  and'hurries 
on.,  ^  _  *  ..',,■,         ,  -   '      • 

Shéis  in  excellent  time.    She  take^  her  ticket,  and,^ 
hidden  behînd  her  thick  vail,  waità.    No  onè  she  knows 
isat  the  station— the  village  folks\  hftvé  seen  very  little 
of  her  during  her  brief  reign  atc.the  Manor  House. 

mtly  tke  traia  rushes  in-5-^he  ^llps  itita  Tnreinpty" 
carriage  ;  a  moment  more  and  she  is  speeding  on  her 
Lon^on  way— flying  froùi  Valentine— free  1   "^^ 


\ 


fil 


■^v 


■  *■  »  ■  / 

V  ''4M 


Il  "  ^  ^ 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN, 


V    * 


■**.■-)> 


^V 


t 


"^» 


r^' 


î^ 


chaptèV  xxxVii.  , 

"  AFTER  LONG  GRIEF  AND  PAIN." 

-'     •' 
HE  close  ofa  tnurky  London  day.     Over  the 
chimney-pots  a  sky  qi  dùllest  drab  is  settling 
down  ;   from  the  court,  below  the  voices  oï\^ 
women  and  childk'en  corne  up.     In  her  room 
-^bedroom  and  sittipg-room  in  onc — Jemlma  Ann  leans- 
eut  pf^the  liCtle  window  and  tries  to  catch  a  breath  of 
air,  whlH^e,  air  in  this  pea-sOup  atmdiBphere  there  is  none. 
On  her  knees,  her  folded  arms  .i^n  the  sill,  déjection,  in 
her  face,  she  watches  the  matrons  laden  with  babies  in 
arms,  comparing  notes  concerning  th'e  'eat  of  the  past 
jiay,  and  the  tattered  children  àt  play  on  the  flags.     For 
she  is  bomesick  and  Jonely,  and  longing  for  a  word  of 
farewell  from  her  darling  ère  she  starts  on  her  long 
return'  journey  across  the  Atlantic.    That  answer  was 
due  two  days  ago,  and' bas  not  yet  arrived.    She  is  su£St-^ 
ciently  well  provided  with  money — Dalores"  bas  ever 
béen  a  gênerons  mistress — but  she  feels  this  week  niust  é 
perforce  bring  her  waiting  to  a  cldse. 

She  so  longs  to  get  away  froni  the  sights  and  sounds  ' 
of  this  great  grimy  city,  from  tlvese  inriumerable  strange 
faces,  from  t;he  land  that  holds  the-  one  being  she  loves 
best  on  earth^^-and  yet  keeps  her  so  far  away.  She  will 
go  home — nay,  she  bas  no  home — but  to  New  York — it 
will  seem  home  to  her  after  London'— and  take  a  new 
service  there.  tf  Miss  Snowball  t^ould  but  write  that 
good-by  she  so  huàgers  to  hear.  AU  day  long  she  bas 
been  listening  for\he  postman's  knock — listening  in 
iÇiJ!V«in.    Even  the  iUust^rated  "  penny,  dreadful  "  shQ  bas 


?^\ goïïeoût  ânï'MûgBt,  \witir  its  four  pages  of  thfiMing 
.narrative,  bas  failed  toXinterest  her. .  And  now,  dil^'- 
Ipointéd  and  discôuraged/iiope  has  lef t  her  for  ûie  dtt]^ 


jiîiâsftCrt^  '"■'«^'-  ,%.ix»,^'njm^-..3Ku.^t3^i^ 


èr^the 
ettling 
ices  ofx 
'  room 
i  ieans- 
ath  of 
Done. 
ion, in 
3ies  in 
le  past 
.  For 
rord  of 
r  long 
er  was 
3  suflS-- 
s  ever 
:  must  a 


sounds  [ 


'      GIl/£F    AND\PAIN,  .415 

'      '       ^  '  i     ' 

She  does  not  blâme  her  young  lady — itisthedping  ôf 

Sir  Vane^nd  those  two  cantanketous  old  maids:     Only 

she  feels  It  wili  go  nigh  to  break/her  heart  altogether  if 

she  has  to  leave  London  withoi^  a  word. 

.    The  gray  eyening  grows  grayet-;    thç  leaden   sky 

,  threatens  speedy  riiin.  The  imothers  and  most  of  thc 
children  go  indpôrs  to  supper.  ^Ôcjys  frotn  the  nearest 

ïpublic-house  Ait  aboiit  in  the  obscuïilty  with  potâ  of  béer. 
There  is  a  savory  odor  in  the  thick  aij:  as  of  toasting 

jxinffins,  and  fizzling  saiisageà,  tripe  W&d  onions,  and 
ôthèr  dainty  dishiers  to  go  with  foamy  flagons  of  bitter 
b^r.  Jemima .  Ann  absorbs  sights,  and  sounds,  and 
smèllà,  dreamily,  and  opines  that  she  will  light  her 
candie,  and  h^ve  a  <Wp  of  tea,  and  another  try  at  the 
illustnited  penny  work  of  light  literature.  The  sound 
of  wheels  ;  of  a  cab  di^wn  up  at  the  entrance  of  the 
court  f^ils  to  attract  her/notice  ;  it  is  only  the  sight  of  a 

Jady  entering,  and ,  maklng  her  way  in  the  ding^  dusk 
down  the  court,  that  rouses  her  out  of  her  apathy. 

A  lady,  even  in  that  murky  light — slenderand  tall^ — 
who  pauses  to  ask  Jvkr  way  of  the  children.  Jçmima 
Ann  hears/the  anâwer,  "  Up  fhem  stàirs — three  pair  front 
—there  sh»  is  at  the  windoW,"  and  starts  wildly  to  her 
feet.  Is  itl^-can  it  ba  possible  th^t  this  is  the  answer  to 
her  letter?  She  daahes  to  the^oor,  opens  it,  and  en- 
counters  on  the  landing  a  slender  young  lady,  dressed 
in  dark  gray.  AnNÛ^  lampr'^swings  in  the  passage  ;  its 
dim  light  falls  on  the  face  of  her  visitor— ^  very,  very 
pale  and  weary  face,  but  a  face  whose  like,  Jemima  Ann 
rapturously  thinks,  the  wide  earth  ag^în  does  not  hold. 

*'  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  my  dear  Miss  Snowball  |"  she 
cries  put,  in  a  transport  of  amaze  and  joy.  She  has  her 
in  her  little  room,  thé  door  shut,  seated  in  a  chair,  she 
herself  kneeling  at  her  feet,  her  arms  clasped  about  her 


_C]rying,  hugging,  ail  in  a  breath. 

"Oh  !  my  dearest  darling  Misa  Snowball  !    To  think 
of  your  coming  yourself  ail  this  long  way,  of  finding-' 


•^^ 


y 


'V^iiC^'ia-i^jt^-miiii^  -i^^A^^  ^,'ï»iè^'a4^ 


9 


c-ffiC 


'     '^^7T'^^*T'^''-^^^J^i'-^  '"  l 


•"^'TwV»  V- 


-M,i> 


n-é^' !■„  h-*^X  ^-  '^'"^ ' " •"*'/-f*"^x>-î4 


■,*'r? 


^m^h' 


V 


# 


416 


GH/JSP    AND    PAIN. 


out  poor  Jemima  Ann,  of  travelîng  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds  of  miles  to  say  good-by  to  your  poor  girl  who  loves 
you  so  much."  ... 

"Dear  Jertiima,"  her  young  mistress  says,  her  head 
I    droomng  wearily  on  Jemima's  shoulder,  a  stifled  sob  in 
•    her  JVed  voice,  "  not  good-by.     I  hâve  tîblne  to  stay,  if 
yo^  wi.llj  hâve  me,  Jemïma  Ann." 

''^iss  Snajvball  î    My  sweetest  Miss  Snowball— to 
stay!" 

"Tostay.  I  hâve  run  away,  Jemima.  I  am  not  going 
^^^^~"®^^'"'  ï^ever,  neVer  more  !  N^o— do  not  ask  me 
qi^estîôns  to-night  ;  I*am  tired,  so  tirèd.  I  cannot  talk. 
Give  me  some-tea,  please,  if  you  can,  and  l€t  me  lie  down 
somewhere  and  rest.  To-morrow  I  will  tell  you  ev«ry- 
y  ^thing."  Utter  weariness,  heart-stricken  pain,  are  in  her 
voice.  Jemima  Ann  starts  up,  full  of  concern  and  re- 
pentance.  In  a  moment  the  candie!  is  lit,  ànd  she  is  ré- 
moving  her  young  lady's  hat  and  rinantle.  Now  she  sees 
how  thin  she  has  grown,  how  pâle,  how  wom— a  very 
shadow  of  the  brightlybeautifi^  "Miss  Snowball"  of 
hardly  a  year  ago. 

"Oh,  my  poor  dear," she  mur^urs,  tears  risirig  toher 
eyes,  as  she  kisses  Dolores'  listleès  hand.    "  What  a  hard  ^ 
hard  time  you  must  hâve  had." 

"Yes,  hard— h«it-breaking,'|  Dolores  answers  in  the 
same  spiritless  way,."but  I  am  0nly  tii-ed  out  now,  Jem- 
ima, for  ail  that  is  over— over  forlever  ;  I  ara  hère  with  you; 
and  we  will  part  no  more  my  one  tnie  and  loving  friend." 

She  drops  her  head  against  the  side  of  the  upright 
wooden  chair,  and  rests  so,  with  closed  eyes,  pallid,  spent. 
Full  of  a  great  compassion,  Jemima  bustles  about,  lip- 
stairs  and  down,  brings  tea,  sets  the  table,  goes  out  and 
rcturns  with  a  crusty  loa^,  a  pat  of  fresh  butter,  watcr-/ 
£Fes%  aad  ar  cold  roast  fowA.    Th«»  ref reshurent» -gly 


arranges  in  the  old  deft,  neat  way,  and  then  gently  sum* 

.   mens  her  beloved  guest    In  her  hard,  stiflf-backed  chaifg 

Lady  V^cntine  is  half  aslepp,  thoroughly  fatigucd  ané 


\ 


;ikA  t'i 


*»||      !J-*      ^1       -    j  ■%■ 


r  -  '  'V       ^ 

t      "^  *  j    » 

GRIEF    AND    PAIN,  jf,        417 

worn  out.  Thelittle  supper  looks  tempting,  and  she  is 
hungry,  and  eats  with  a  rélish  she  has  not  felt  for  weeks. 
Sheis  free— her  Bastile  isleft  behind— thatisthethoiight 
that  gives  zest  to  the  viands.  After  supper,  refreshed 
and  invigorated,  sHe  is  ready^  for  a  talk,  but  Jemîma, 
with  gentle  insistance,  puts  it  ôff  until  tô-morro\(r. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,  Miss  Snowball;  I  am  in  no 
hurry  to  go  now  that  you  are  hère  ;  to-niorroMrwill  be 
time  enough.  Hâve  a  good  sleep  to-night,  and  tell  me 
.ail  about  it  after  breakfast.  Mine  is  a  barder  bed  than 
you  are  used  to,  but  it  is  as  clean  as  clean,  and  after  ten 
there  is  no  quieter  or  respectabler  court  in  London  than 
this.  So  undress  and  lie  down.  You  do  look  just  fit  to 
drop." 

Dolores  obeys  passively.  She  is  completely  wearied 
with  her  journey,  and  she  slept  none  last  night.  She  lies 
down  on  the  little  hard,  clean  bed,  and  holds  out  her 
hands,  like  a  child,  to  herfaithful  attendant. 

"  Dear  Jemima,"  she  says,  "  what  would  I  do  witheut 
/you  ?    Kiss  me  good-night," 

"  My  bwn,  own  darling  Miss  Snowball  !" 

Jemima  says  "  Oh  !"  under  her  breatb,  watching  the 
sweet,  wan  face,  thetired  blue  eyes  slowly  closing,  "  to 
think  there  should  be  a  man  in  the  world.hard  and  cruel 
tb  you  !  But  Sir  Vane  Valentine  is  not  a  man — he  is  a 
brute  !" 

And  thus  the  answer  to  Jemima's  letter  cornes. 

Next  day  dawns  foggy  and  raw.  The  rain  is  patter- 
ing  on  the  window-panes,  when,quite  late,  Dolores  opens 
her  eyes  on  this  mortal  life  in  the  "tlwee  pair  front." 
Outside  there  is  wînd,  and  wet,  and  mud,  and  fog  ;  in- 
âde,  a  brisk  little  fire  blazes  in  the  grate — a  glow  of  hos- 
pitable  warmth,  and  welcome,  and  sunshine,  in  itself—an 


■    "    "4  '"•il 


Wfl 


"arômîlîc  bdor  of  coffeèperfuines  tlie  air,  hot  rolls  àrë  on 
the  table,  and  her  clothes,  ail  brushed  and  fresh,  lie  on  a 
chair  beside  her.  No  one  is  in  the  rooin,  as  she  gets  up, 
half-bewildered  at  first  by  the  strangeness  of  it  ail,  but 


.,41 


!i'j,'*ii* 


T  -  ,       ^  ' 

,^j  4ï8  GRIEF    AND    PAIN,      '  S 

wonderfully  strengthened  by  her  long  sleep,  and  proceeds 
to  dress.     She  has  nearly  finished  when  Jemîma  enters, 
rosy  with  rain  and  rapid  walking,  laden  with  eggs,  and 
marmalade,  and  cool,  pink  radishes. 
1  "Now,  now,  Jemima,"  Dolores  remonstrates,  laugh- 

•  ing,  the  matutinal  greeting  over,  "this  will  never  do. 

What  sort  of  a  gourmand  do  y  ou  take  me  for,  that  you 
must  run  out  in  the  rain  like  this  in  search  of  delicacies  ? 
I  shall  need  no  tempting  after  this,  remember — my  appe- 
tite  has  not  been  left  behind  at-  Manor  Valentine.  And 
you  are  not  to  was^e  your  substance  in  riotous  living  for 
mg.  We  are  going  to  get  on  plainly'and  economically, 
you  know,  and  save  our  money  and  return  to  dear  New 
York  as  soon  ap  may  be.  And  I  shall  wait  upon  myself 
i-^  after  this — we  are  friends  from  henceforth,  recollect, 

f  riends  and  equals — no  more  mistress  and  maid.  I  shall 
never  be  any  one's  mistress  as  long  as  I  live  ag^in.  '  My 
lady  '  is  dead  and  buried  down  there  in  the  dreariness  of 
Valentine.  TAis  is  Snowball — your  friend — who  has  no 
friend  in  the  world  to  whom  she  can  turn  but  you,  dear 
oldJim!" 

Jemima -Ann  laughs  gleefully.    To  see  her  darling 
with  the  old  brightness  in  her  faCe,  the  old  blitheness  in 
her  tones,  to  know  she  is  to  part  from  her  no  more — it  is  ^ 
bliss — she  asks  no  more  of  fate. 

They  breakfa^t  well  and  leisurely.  Over  the  coffee 
and  rolls  Dolores  tells  her  story — ail  of  her  story  at  least 
that  she  can,  or  may  ever,  bring  herself  to  reveaj.  There 
are  (hings  she  ^ill  never  be  able  to  think  of,  much  less 
speak  of,  without  a  pang  of  the  old  bitterness  and  cruel 
pain.  Jemîma  listens — lost  in  a  medley  of  wrath  and 
pity,  and  anger  and  love.  Dearest  dear  Miss  SnowbaU  ! 
that  brute  Sir  Vane  !  green-eyed  cat,  Miss  Routh  !  that 
"»our  "old"  Tartar,""Miss  Valcntînc+  ^Alt  f*ît  is  ~  s~~blessed 


\h 


.3S.r. 


escape  to  hâve  eut  £he  cord,  and  got  away  from  that  dis- 
inal  old  house.  ^ 

Miss  Snowball  has  done  right — of  course  she  hatéettf 


ft 


l.âLcÉ'  ^' 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  419 

right.  What  !  go  and  be  buried  alive  In  a  drearier  dun* 
geon  even  than  Manor  Valentine,  with  Sir  Vane  for  her 
jailer,  and  Miss  Routh  exulting  and  triumphant  !  Better 
poverty,  better  hard  work,  better  the  worst  that  life  can 
brîng  than  such  death  in  life  as  that. 

They  sit  together  through  the  long,  dulj  rainy  day, 
and  discuss  their  plans.  It  wiil  not  do  to  départ  at  once 
— they  are  saf er,  hidden  away  hère,  in  this  obscure  nook 
of  the  great  city,  than  in  seeking  f  urther  flight.  Sir  Vane 
will  search  for  his  wife,  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  in 
his  efforts  to  trace  her*  He  will  move  the  whole  détective 
force,  ajid  spend  bis  beloved  money  lavishly  to  capture 
her  if  he  ean.  If  he  can  !  Dolores'  eyes  flash,  her  hands 
clench  at  the  thought. 

"  I  will  die  first  !"  she  cries,  and  she  means  it.  Death 
holds  no  terror  so  great  as4he  terror  of  returning  to  that 
horrible  life.  "  I  will  never  go  back  !"  she  exclaims  ; 
"  he  may  do  what  he  likes.  The  law  that  takes  the  part 
of  the  husband  al ways  against  the  wife,  may  do  its  utmost. 
I  will  bear  ail  things,  but  I  will  never  go  back." 

They  décide,  therefore,  that  for  the  présent  masterlj 
inactivity  will  be  savest.  After  an  interval  of  a  month  or 
so,  under  assumed  names  and  more  or  less  disguised,  thqr 
may  go  to  Liverpool,  çr  cross  to  Havre,  and  take  passage 
for  New  York.  Once  there  life  will  begin  anew,  a  life  of 
labor  and  mucb  privatipn,  no  doubt,  of  loneliness  .and 
discomfort  very  likely,  but  they  will  be  together  and  f  rce. 
That  is  everything  after  the  life  of  the  past  year.  Work  ! 
Work  is  i^bthing,  Dolores  tfeinks,  with  eegerly  flashing 
eyes  ;  shefis  young,  she  is  strong,  she  isfull  of  confidence 
in  hersell,  her  tastes  are  simple,  her  wants  fè^\-.  In  New 
York,  and  together,  they  will  be  quite,  quite  happyagain. 
Ifonly  the  good  time  were  nearer.  and  they  were  on 


tbeirWay, 


1 


.^ 


"  Some  people  are  bom  to  be  obscure,  and  some  bave 
iûbscurity  thrust  upon  theà[i,"  she  says^  laughingly,,  to 
Jemima.    "  I  am  of  the  former.  The  happiest  time  of  my 


h. 


4'] 


Kfa 


/Il 


420 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 


'S' 


life  was  on  Dree  Island,  in  a  Holland  frock,  helping 
,  Ma'am  Weesy  tô  shell  peas  and  toast  the  bread,  and  dig- 
ging  for  clams,  apd  scouring  Bay  Chalette  in  a  batteau 
with  the  boys.  Wbat  a  lifetime  ago  ail  that  seems  now. 
To  go  back  and  live  in  the  little  white  cottage,  with  the 
solitude  of  the  little  white  cottage  shutting  us  in,  and 
al^  this  big,  turbulent,  troublesome  wbrlcj  shut  out, 
listening  to  old  Tim  croak  and  Weesy  scold,  with  you 
to  chatter  to,  and  Inno  Desereaux  and  Père  Louis,  my 
only  visitors.    Q\jJiat  would  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven  ! '^ 

"  Wheie  I  am  the  great  and  noble 
Tell  me  of  renown  and  famé, 
"  And  the  red  wine  sparkles  bighest  •• 

To  do  honor  to  my  name. 
Far  away  a  place  is  vacant 
.         \  By  an  hi^ble  heaith  for  me, 

Par  away  Where  tears  are  falling 
There  I  fain  would  be." 

.  She  sings  the  words  under  her  breath,  then  sighs 
impatiently,  and  get  up,  pushing  back  q^ll  the  soft  rings 
of  fair  hair,  and  walks  up  and  down,  a  lofty,  slender, 
gray-cl&d  figure,  in  the  narrow,  dingy  room. 

*.*If  ône  could  forget  !  If  I  could  but  shut  out  the 
last  horrible  year,  with  ail  its  hateful  remembrances,  its 
bitter  humiliations,  its  heart-'burning^,  its  shame,  its 
insulta.  But  I  will  carry  it  with  me  aiways,  a  plague- 
spot  im  my  life,  down  tq  its  very  end.  And  though  J 
hâve  snapped  my  chain,  I  shall  carry  my  half  clanking 
with  me  to  my  grave.  What  latent  possibilities  of  evil 
lie  undreamed  of  with^  us.  I  am  af raid  of  ray self  i^en 
I  think  what  a  few  monîïis  more  of  that  life  might  hâve 
.  made  me.  I  don't  wonder  women  go  wrong  so  often 
through  sheer  desperation.  I  hâve  felt  the  capability 
within  myself.  Thank  God  !  ail  thèse  evil  thoughts  of 
hntrcd  and  .vengeance  hâve  heen  leftbchlnd.   J  am  coa^ 


scioàs  of  nothing  nftw  but  ai]u  unuttcrable  longing  to  l|he^ 
out  of  England.  Go  where  I  may,  endure  what  I  will,  I 
can  never  suffer  again  as  I  hâve  suffered  hère."  ?   i. 


ïï*' 


,y\ 


i-y-"i'.- 


•-'i»-"'-~»>rf».t»(Maf.,_ 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 


421 


And   now  the  days  of  vvaiting  begin— weary  days, 
when  they  sit  in  the   dull    little  three-pair  front,  and 
never  stir  out  except  in  the  very  carly  dawn,  when  only 
the  milkmen  ahd  market  people  are  abroad.      Under 
assumed   names  and   characters,  keeping  always  aloof 
ffotn  the  matrons  ahd  maids  of  the  crowded  court,  yet 
finding  théîr  best   security  in   thât  very  crotvdingy  the 
long  sutnmer  days  drag  themselves  out  one  by  one.     No 
one  disturbs  them,  no  suspicion  follows  them,  that  they 
can  see.     Hope  buoy s  them  up,  ànd  enables  them  to  bear 
the    depressiiSg  "confinement  without    much    harm    to 
health.     Only  afr  intervais  profound  dépression,  deadly 
apathy,  passionate  regret  for  her  wrecked  life,  lay  their 
hold  upon  Dolores,  and  for  the  time  she  sinks  and 
droops.     What  is  there  left  worth  living  for  ?    She  is  a 
slave  who  has  esèaped,  but  a  slave  her  whole  life  long 
none  the  less,  and  liable  to  capture  any  day.    She  is 
Vane  Valentine'S  wife— no  power  on  «arth  can  alter 
that     Life  or  death—what  do  they  matter  ?    Ail  that 
makes  life  best  worth  living— love— has  gone  forever. 
She  grows  hollow-eyed,  silent,   wan  ;   she  fades  away 
before  Jemima's  aflfrighted  eyes  like  a  shadow.    Thèse' 
mobds  do  not  last,  of  course;    the  ûatural  vigor  and 
elasticity  of  blessed   youth  reassert  themselves.      The 
days,  weeks  of  waiting  drag  themselves  out  ;  the  time 
approaches  for  their  second  flight,  apd  the  excitement 
rouses  Dolores  to  new  life  and  hope. 

Early  one  morning  they  take  the  Havre  steamer, 
thinking  this  routd  safest,  and  cross  to  France  in  safety. 
By  the  first  steamer  that  leavesthat  port  they  take  pas- 
sage to  New  York.  No  one  pursues  them;  notbing 
happens.  They  shut  themselves  up  in  their  cabin,  and 
watch  with  glad  eyes  the  receding  land.  the  leaping 


Tiravesor^lKëwlld  océan,  that  is  to  sever  them  for  ail 
time  frbni  Vane  Valentine.  «And  now,  my  own  sweet 
Miss  Sn9!çeball,"  cries  Jémima  Ann,  clkpping  her  hand» 
gleefully,  "  we  are  free,  and  oflf  at  last,  and  ail  the  world 


:-y 


\' 


rV    "'f  >  t^; 


^Sf 


4aa( 


»t|fT.(|; 


GÉIEF    ANn    PAIN. 


3i     *"  ,«'*'        i      ' 


is  béifore  us  tô  seek  our  fortunes,  lilcVtfije  princesses  in 
a  fairy  taie  !  Arid  good-by  to  Sir  Vane  Valentine  and 
hîs  Cornwall  prison,  and  his  two  sour.  old  maids,  forevcr 

i  and  ever  !"         '  ,. 

But  we  cannot  qtiite  say  good-by  to  Sir  Vane  Val- 
entine, after  Jemima  Ann's  sumipary  fashion.     On  tUfe 

.  eyening  of  the  day  of  my  lady's  flight,  Sir  Vane;  cornes 
up  from  Cornwall,  black  with  dlsappointment,  and 
fiercely  angry  \^^  his  wife  for  ter  unexpected  défec- 
tion. That  she  would  dare  refuse  to  come  at.  the  last 
moment,  he  has  never  for  an  instant  thought,  and  in  her 
sudden  and  violent  headache  he-has.nQ  faith.  No  idea 
has  ever  entered  his  mind  that  she  has  jçhanced  to  over- 
hear  his  interesting  little  plot  in  the  park.  He  has  been 
disposed  to  vent  his  wrath  on  Mi^  Dorothy  and  Miss 
Routh  for  eoming  without  her;  but  Miss  Routh  has^a  way 
of  pu|;ting  him  down  that  never  fails.  Drawihg  her 
-small  figure  up  to  its  tallest,  looking  him  fùll  in  the 
flery  black  eyes  with  her  coolly  gleaming  green  ones  for 
afuU  minute  in  silence,  he  iscowed  and  mesmerized  into 
Sullen  silence  before  éhe  speaks  a  word. 

"  Be  goo'd  enough  to  reserve  your  abbse  for  your 
wife — when  you  see  her,  Sir  Vane  Valientine,"  she  says, 
haughtily,  **  we  do  not  deserve  it,  and  décline  to  take  i.t. 
We  hâve  obeyed  your  orders,  and  are  hère,  There  is  a 
return  train  at  six,  I  an^  told  ;  we  can  go  by  that,  if  you 
like."  i 

',     But  the  baronet  does  not  like.     He  mutters  a  sulky 
apology,  an4  will  go  back  for  his  wife  himself .  iïistead. 
He  takes  the  train  ;  "  nursing  his  wrâth  to  keep  it  warm,"- 
and  reaches  the  Manor  Houae  i»  the  côol  of  the  evening. 
He  finds  the  servants  gathered  but  of  doors,  enjoying  the 

rfrcsh  beauty  bf  a  very  ^ne  moonrise.    They  disperse  pre- 

-eipitately-ftt-the-first  sigbt-ef-^is  seewHng  faée;"«t-1 
first  harsh  sound  of  his  imperious  voice.  Where  is  my 
lady  ?  He  wishes  to  see  her  at  once.  Let  hej  be  tolil  be 
ia  \^x%  and  waiting  for  her  in  the  drawing-rooiq,     The^ 


% 

ri  If 


'tiW't'  ;- , 


rst^;""' 


-r      «fv    »   «ji  -f 


K 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 


4*3 


look  at  one  another  ^  moment  in  startled  silence.    Then 

?atkins,  the  oldest  and'  most  éonfidential  servant  thère, 
lances.  *         , 
"If  you  please,  Sir  V?ine,"  rather  tremulously,  "  my 
ly  is-^is  not  hère." 
"  Not  hère  !"  with  a  start  and  a  stare,  "  where  then  is 
she?"  :. 

"  Sir  Vane,  we  think  she  has  gone.    Almost  as  soon 
aé  Miss  Valentine  and  Miss  Routh  left  this  morning,  she 
^  drepsed  a;rid  left  the  'ouse.     None  of  us  saw  her  go,  h^ 
we  missed  her  at  lunchéon  time,  and  a  couple  of  hours 
1o "  - 


"„Well  ?"  be  says,  blankly  ;  "  well  ?" 

"  A  coijple  of  hours  ago  I  was  down  at  the  stati^on, 

if  you  pleis^^Sir  Vane,  and  I  heard  there -"  another 

nervous  pause,  àti<i  a  furipus  stamp  from  Sir  Vane. 

"  Go  on,  you  stàriiig  fool  !"  he  cries  out. 

"I  heard  there,"  said  Mr.  Watkins,  turning  red  and 
défiant,  "that  my  lady  had  taken  a  ticket  f^  London, 
and  left  by  thq  arf  after  ten  express.  And  there  is  a  letter 
for  you,  Sir  Vane,  in  my  lady's  dressing-room." 

"  Bring  it  herè,"  he  says,  "  and  go." 

He  stands  dazed— stunned — his  fierce  temper  quieted 
ty  the  very  force  and  unexpectedness  of  this  crushing 
blow.  Run  away,  he  thinks,  blankly.  He  has  never 
thought  of  that.  Watkins  brings  him  the  letter— yes,  it 
is  in  her.had(l    He  tears  it  open  and  reads  : 

"  I  hope  to  hâve  left  Valentine  forever,  hours  befoi-e 
you  receive  this.  Search  fof  me  if  you  will— fihd  me  if 
you  can,  but  no  power  on  earth  shall  compel  me  to  re- 
turn  to  the  life  I  now  Icavc^iife  with  you.  Leavemein 
peace  to  work  my  own  way,  and  hidden  from  ail  who 


s-tvtrknow^i  meri:wttt~troat>ie  yôff^np  moré.rTPi 
mebe  dead  to  you  Who  hâte  me,  as  I  shall  be  to  the  fe^f 
Iriends  who  still  care  for  me — I  ask  for  no  more  tha  ) 
tba^    Hmkt,me  dowa,  and  it  shall  ^  at  your  péril.    I 


/». 


,  S 


iî«i ^è,  ',  j''. 


g'VÇ  Cif^j^  %;^  7      *. 


424 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 


\' 


m?- 


^'E-' 
;^;:. 


will  throw  myself  on  the  protection  of  George  Valen- 
tine,  and  proclaim  to  the  world  with  him  that  you  hold 
illegally  his  title  and  estate.  Dolores." 

He  stands  with  the  létter  in  his  hand — silent,  over- 
whelmed  by  this  blow,  this  total  overthrow  of  ail  his 
plans — fiUed  with  fury  and  disappointment.  Fled— es- 
caped  !  She  has  suspected  then,  has  perKaps  overheard. 
He  reads  the  letter  again  and  again.  If  he  leavesher  in 
peace  her  lips  are  sealed  ;  if  he  seeks  her  out  she  will 
claim  the  friendship  of  the  man  he  hâtes — ay,  and  fears. 
,JEïe  does  not  for  a  moment  doubt  what  she  says  hère,  he 
kno"w§"that&he  is  true  as  truth  itsélf.  But  what  of  her 
lover  in  the  vilià4gfeM&Jie/in  ignorance  of  her.flight  tod? 
He  puts  on  his  hat  and  goès  straight  to  the  Ratherripe 
Arms.  There,  stapding  on  the  threshôld^  enjoying  the 
starry  beauty  of  the  night,  Rçne  Macdonald  stands — as 
he  i&  convinced  he  would  not  stand  if  he  knew  of  to- 
da^'S' work.  He  passes  by  without  entering,  and  walks 
moodily  back  to  the  Manor.  Hère  fiirther  confirmatijj 
meets  him  in  the  shape  of  a  note,  brought  by  a- boy  fronj" 
the  village,  in  his  absence.  It  is  addressed  to  Lady  Vall 
entinè.     He  opens  it  at  once  ;  it  begins  abruptly  :     '^,^^ 

"  DoLORÇs — I  have  had  a  letter  to-day  from  George 
Valetnine,  summoning  me  to  London,  where  he  awaits 
me^  Can  I  not  see  you  for  one  moment  before  I  go,  if 
only  to  say  good-by  ?  ,     René." 

"  The  boy  is  waitiug,  if  you  pîease.  Sir  Vane,"  the 
servant  says  who  deliverà  it  ;  "  there  is  an  answer,  he 
says."  \. 

5     ^  Tell  him   LaS^  Valentine  left  for  Comwall  this 
lùrniog»  and  that  i  you  do  not  know^whcn-she  will  be-^^ 
back,"  responds  Sif  Vane. 

The  answer  is  delivered,  and  the  boy  goes. 
That  night  Sir  Vane  spends  perforée  at  the  Manor  ;  7 

>  .  "  **■ 


•  ""SçS?*^'    '-.■;  *t  *  ' 


\ 


-i 


^ 


*J^.^- 


::iifc 


--1 


J 


M 


GkJEF    AND    PAIN. 


:  .£_.-;■         \  :  '  ■'    / 

next  mortiing  he  takes  the  earlieât  train  for  LondoH;  and 

his  first faction  is  to  drive  straight  to  Scotland.  Yard 
and  seta^tever  détective  on  the  tràck  of  his  runaway 
wife.       /  i 

"  rii  find  you,  my  lady,  if  skill  and  money  can  do  it," 
he  says^  with  a  vicions  snap  of  his  white  teeth,  "and  l'il 

take  thé  conséquences,  and,  by ,  so  shall  you  !" 

That  same  early  train  bears  away  another  pas^etoger, 
the  ^rk,  foreign-looking^  young  arti$t  who   has  been 

^stopping  for  the  past  week  at  the  village  inn.  The  two 
men  meet,  and  eye  each  other  in  no  very  friendly  fashion 
at  the  station.  No  greetings  are  exchanged  ;  they  are 
enemies  to  the  deatft,  and  they  read  it  in  each  other'k 
glance.  René  Macdonald  turns  away,  a  chill  sensation 
of  repulsion  filling  him,  and  thinks,  with  a  shudder  o^' 
pity  and  love,  what  Dolores'  life  must  be  like  beside  this 
man.  Her  pale,  pathetic  young  face,  so  worn,  so 
altered,  rises  before  him  as  be  saw  it  that  evening  in  the 

jpark. 

«  And  r  am  pdwerl^s  to  help  her,"  he  despairingly 

thinks.     "  I  would  give  my  life  to  save  her  from  one  sot;  - 

Vraïur,  and  I  must  stand  aside  and  yield  her  up  to  be  tor- 
turedl  tb.death  by  this  sullen  scoundrel.  Oh,  my  darling  ! 
my  little  love  !  if  only  the  past  could  l^e  undbne  what 
power  on  earth  should  be  strone^  enough  to  force  me  to 
yield  you  up  to  Vane  ValenMtfe  ?" 

And  so,  with  the  falUw^ight  of  Dolores*  first  day  in 
London,  the  train  that  comes  thundering  in  through  the  . 
dismal  twilight  disgorges  among  itscrowd  of  passengers 
the  man  who  hâtes  and  the  man  who  loves  her.  At  the 
moment  her  thoughts  are  with  both— with  fear  for  one, 
with  longing  for  the  other— as  she  drearily  sits  at  the 
window  of  Jemima's  dingy  little  lodging,  watching,  with 
1.1  ,      ,    ,  ^^fae^ceaselessïy-ialling^nttifc— --^-^^-— r- 


■WT! 


**■ 


t. 


-If.  I 


I 


'Iw 


'^•Ll 


i     »; 


436 


ALL    TIMES    PASS    OVER.^ 


A, 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

.  "  FOR  SAD  TIMES?  AND  GLAD  TIMES,  AND  ALL  TIMES 
.  PASS  OVER." 

ï  is  the  afternoon  of  a  wild  and  tempestuous 
winter  day — a  day  for  glowing  coal  fires,  and 
drawn  curtains,  and  easy  chairs,  and  cozy 
ingle  nooks.  Long  lines  of  sleet  lash  the 
Windows  sharply  as*steel,  the  wind  whistles  shrillydown 
tl»«  streets,  half  beating  the  breath  oût  of  the  unwary, 
and  goes  whooping  through  the  streets  of  Kew  York 
like  à  March  wind  gone  mad.  Shutters  bang,  loose 
casements  rattle,  ancient  tenements  totter  before  the  face 
of  the  blast.  Few  are  abroad — the  pavements  are  brittlfe 
and  slippery  as  glass,  street  lamps  twinkle  gustily 
athwart  the  sleet  and  wind.  Stores  are  closing  early — 
only  the  lager-bier  saloon  at  the  corner,  with  it's  dazzling 
display  of  gas,  looks  b^isk  and  cheerfi^l,  and'§çenis  to 
drive  a  thriving  trade.  ,  - 

"And  I  hope  to  goodhess  gracions  she*ll  take  a  stage 
down  town,  and  not  get  her  death  trying  to  save  ten 
cents,"  murmurs  a  watcher,  âattening  her  nose  anxiou^ 
against  a  window-pane  ;  "  it's  an  awful  afternoon."     ^ 

It  is.  The  wind  sweeps  by  with  a  wh^oop  and«i  howl 
ijàs  shé  says  it,  a  fresh  dash  of  sleety  ra|p  beats  nofstly 
against  the  panes.  The  watcher  leaves  the  window,  and 
gives  an  admonitory  pokeito  an  alreadV  brilliant  coal 
fire,  anothertouch  hère,  and;  there  to  a  trimly-set  table, 
places  the  siàall  cane  rocker*,  more  geomeCtically  straight 
In  the  center  of  the  hearth-iîug^  and  turns  the  lamp  up 

a  trifle  higher.  for  it  is  nearly  dark  ftj  Jlve  jo'cIocjl— 


"•yet 


*i. 


^ 


4^ 


It  is  a  comfortable  little  robm,  with  a  warnp 
carpet,  some  cane  chairs,  white  curtains, 
corner,  a  litter  of  bocks  and  magasines, 


looking  red 

a  piano  in  a 

und  a  piieof 


i 


il^i^àl 


r'.''5i£i--^ 


>'-'"  ,  I 


*i 


487 


AZZ     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 


t*^ 


need^ework  in  a  basket.    It  is  an  apartment  big  cnough 

for  hvo,  for  three,  perhaps  fitting  tightly-^no  more.  But 

..as  only  two  persons  are  ever  in  it,  this  is  hardly  an 

objection.      "And  less  coal  dpes  to  warm   it,"    says 

sagely,    Jemima  Ann.     It  is  Jemim'a  Ann  who  jn^Kcs 

about  now,  in  a  flutter  of  nervous  unrest,  waitin^  for 

her  young  lady,  who  bas  not  yet  returned  from  her  day's 

work.     And  no  queen  recently  corne  into  hei-kingdom 

was  ever  prouder  of  that  dominion  than  is  Jemima  Ann 

of  this  furnisbed  "  floor  through  "  in  the  ^hird  story  of  a 

third-rate  New  York„  hbuse,  in  a  very  third-ra-c  street. 

""  ^   *^    i^^*"    owri,  thèir  veiy  own,   and  they  are 

tvgethet  and^^ppy,  and  free,  and  èbehelps  to  keep  it— 

is  not  ofaly  soleihousekeeper  and  manager,  but  also  part 

bread-wïnnen    That  pilé  of  white  plain  sewing  there 

m, the    basket    is  hers,  thrown   down  while  she   gets 

tea.    And  hard  and  trying  tirijes  hâve  corne  and  goite 

ère  they  found  thémselves  safely  moored  in  this  small 

haven  of  rest. 

They  bave  been  adrift  for  weary  inonths  in  New  York 
City  before  fortune  steered  thenv  hère,  and  into  safe  and 
pleasant  work.  Tr;ie,  they  ha^e  never  known  want,  nor 
anything  approaching  to  it,  but  suspicions  eyes  havc 
looked  at  them,  insolent  voices  hâve  spoken  to  thera- 
they  hâve  béen  unprotected,  and  lonely,  and  full  of  fear* 
But  ail  that  is  past,  and'  hardly  to  be  regretted  now  as" 
they  look  back.  It  wasone  phase  of  life,  imagined  before» 
but  never  seen  ;  it  is  over,  ahd  not  likely  to  reibrn. 

Eight  mdnths  bave  gone-  since   they  left  Havre 

nearly  ten  since  Lady  Valentine  fled  from  Her  husband— 
and  in  ail  that  timeshe  hasheard  little  of  the  lifeand  the 
peopl.e  left  béhind.  ^        ^ 

.  «f  What  be  you  a-goin'  to  c^l  yourself  when  we  ^t  to 
yny  York  r  Baid  tohery^<)nc^W^a^^hipt>oai^^  jenrip,^-^ 

**CalI  myself?"  Dolores  sÈiys,  vaguelr,  lookinir  an 
fron^  thebook  %is  reading.     *^^  - 


■fil 


^yr  .■■^' 


^TI(..T^* 


~t^/'. 


-,■»,.  iî.?'»-"' 


428 


ALI^    TIMES    PASS    OVER: 


"  What  name  will  you  go  by  ?  Not  Lady  Valentine, 
I  hope,'^  says  Jemitna,  laughing.  "No  one  will  believe 
thatr 

"  Lady  Valçntine  !  No/'  Doïorcs  says,  with  a  shud- 
der  ;  "  I  hâte  that  name.  No.  Lct  me  sec.  I  might  take 
yours,  only  Hopkins  is  not  pretty.  Let  oip  think."  She 
looks  at  Jemima  half  stîîiling.  ^*  Suppose  I  goback  to  the 
old  name  I  had  as  à  child— trillon  ?  It  will  do  as  weli 
«s  any.  How  many  I  secm  to  havc  borne  in  my  time. 
Yes  ;  thé  name  by  which  you  kncw  me  first,  my  Jemima, 
•  you  shall  call  me  by  again.  I  am,  from  the  hour  we  lând. 
Mrs.  Trillon."  '  ^  ^ 

The  sea  voyage  does  her  a  world  of  good.  Dépression, 
melancholia,  drop  from  hcr  as^a  garment  ;  she  brightens 
in  spirits,  gains  in  healtlyand  strcngth,  looks  like  her 
own  blooming  self^nce  more.  The  relief  is  so  unutter- 
able  of  this  almost  aççomplishcd  c&capc.  For  now  that 
the  Atlantic  flows  between  them,  she  fears  Vane  Valen- 
fcine  no  longer.  To  discovcr  her  in  New  York  will  be  a 
difficult  task,  even  for  him  ;  to  force  her  to  return  to  him, 
an  impossibility.  And  she  is  scarccly  more  than  twenty 
ye^rs  old— and  life  §9  easily  puts  on  its  most  radiant  face 
when  one  is  free,  and  twenty  years  old  !  They  land,  and 
try  boarding  at  first— Mrs.  Trillon,  and  her  friend,  Miss 
Hopkins^there  is  to  be^no  more  the  distinction  of  mis- 
tress  and  maid.  They  find  a  boarding-house,  and,  aftér 
a  few  days'  delay,  begin  to  look  about  them  for  work. 
Both  are  failures.  Life  in  »  noisy,  gossiping  sefcond-rate 
boarding-house  is  not  to  be  cndi|fed^  a  moath  of  it  is  as 
much  as  Dolores  can  bear.  Ncither  is  work  to  be  had 
for  the  asking  ;  they  are  npt  adapt^  thèse  twoj  to  màny 
kinds  of  work.  "^^^^  Tf 

î'Letrus  tï-y  housekeeping,  Jemima  Ann,"  suggests 
Mrs.  TrUlon,  looking  up  one  day  from  thebig  daily.  whose 
p^çnot  adveniscments  she  ts  poring  over  with  knftted 
brow&  "Hère  are  no  end  of  furnished  apartments  for 
*llght  housekeeping'    Let  uUry  llght  housekeepini 


^tm; 


■^"ki,.  v^i. 


Jemima  Ahn.  I  fancy  it  wiU  cost  us  no  more  than  we 
arc  paying  hère,  and  it  wiU  certainly  be  more  private  and 
more  clean."  ,  '^ 

Jemima  Ann  hails  the  happy  thought  ;  she  puts  on 
her  boonet  and  sallies  forth  in  the  quest.^  But  New  York 
is  a  large  city,  advertisements  are  deceptive,>and  land- 
ladies  sour. 

Another  week  goes  by,  much   shoe-ïeather  îs  worn, 
many  docr-belis  are  rung,  and  mapy,  maày  weary  stairs 
mounted   before  anything  is  ^lid  suitable  to  limited 
rtcans  and  rather  fassions  tastes.    Then  references  are 
demanded,  and- référencées  they  hâve  none.     At  lastthe 
tiniest  of  ail  tiny  French  flats  is  discovered-a  minute 
parlor,  two  dimly-lit  closets,  called.  bedrooms,  a  micro- 
scopic  kitchen,  and  dining-room-all  neât  and  clean.  and 
at  a  high  priée,  but  within  their  unled  means.     Best  of 
al  ,  the  janitress-a  pleasant-faced  matron-^consents  to 
take  her  month's  rent  in  «ivance  and  waive  references. 
bhehkesthe  looks  of  her,  she  smilingly  tells  Jemima 
Ann.     Hère  they  corne  early  in  «eptember,  and  hère  they 
hâve  been  ever  since.    They  find  it  agreeable  eûough  at 
trst  ;  it  is  like  playing  at  housekeeping  in  a  doU's  house. 
Jemima  Ann  cooks  the  most  delicious  little  dishes,  and 
proves  herself  a  very  jewel  of  a  housekeeper.     Lady  Val- 
entme  is  charmed  with  everything-the  dots  of  rooms. 
the  wonderful  ïittle  kitchen  range,  that  seems  hardly  tod 
large  to  be  put  in  her  pocket— the  absolutely  new  life 
that  begins   for  her.    Even  thè/street  is  not  wHhout  a 
charm  of  its  own-a  dusty,  stufïy  street  enough,  with  a 
commmgled  odor  of  adjacent  breweries  and  stables  hanff- 
ing  about  it,  a  sidewalk  noisy  with  children  ail  the  day 
rong,  a  favorite  haunt  of  or^jan-gi^nders,  with  weary  ma- 
trons  holding  babies,  and  sitting  on  door-steps  in  the 
cool  and  silent  eventide.    Tnecharm  is  surely  innn^htng 


but  ira  entire  nWelty,  But  Doïores  likes  to  siV  behirid  Ihe 
Wottmgham  lace  curtains  of  the  little  parlor,  and  take  it 
ail  m.    Life  m  this  phase  she  bis  never  seen  before,  and 


i»'. 


~4i 


430 


ALL    TIMES .  PASS    OVER.    . 


'*>v  ■ 


ti*>-e 


she  is  among  them,  if  riot  of  them,  for  ail  time  now.  But 
stili  work  cornes  not,  and  work  they  soon  must  find. 
Their  united  hoard,  increâsed  by  the  sale  of  Dolores* 
^^wels,  is  melting  away— let  JemimU  Ann  cater  never  so 
Kitiously.  Their  rooms  are  secured  for  this  month  at 
least,  before  it  ends  work  mus/  be  found.  Winter  is  ap- 
proaching,  and  "  wintèr  is  no  man's  friend." 

"We    must    keep  together,  corne  what  may,"  says 
Dolores,xiecidedly,  *'  /Aat  at  least  is  as  fixed  as  fate.    Worjc 
or  no  work,  part  we  shall  not,  my  Jemima." 
"  No,  my  prettj,  I  hope  and  pray  not." 
"  Let  me  sêè,^'  sayë  "  Mrs.  Trillon,"  tapping  herpretty 
chin  with  her  pencil^at  reflective  frown,  çooften  there 
:  now,  knitting  her  brows,  "  my  w^rk  must  be  teaching  if 
v'I  can  get  it    I  can  teach  nîusic,  i^ocal  atnd  instrumental 
^  ~t^t  is  my  one  strong  point.     Freaich.  df  course,  Ger- 
'^  man  after  afashion,  and  I.couId  givè  lessons  in  crayon 
and  pencil  drawing,  and  water  cplori.    Embroidery,  too, 
éf  evçiy  kînd,  we  were  thorou^Éjr  drilled  in  at  Fi//a  des- 
'^nges"    Hère  her  gravity  Aïé^ly  giveaway  over  the 
list  of  her  accomplishment^and  her  joyous  young  laugh  ^ 
rings  out.     "  It  sounds  ridÉulous,  doesn't  it,  cataloguing 
i|ry  wonderful  talents  aéer  thîs  fashion.     I  ought   to  ' 
make,  out  a  list  of  tertas  for  to-morrow's  Herald,  and 
înform  the  public  that  the  highest  biddercan  hâve  me 
^^'    ^^^&ho  •  o^  laughs,  but  it  is  no  joke  after  ail. 
fiC^l&W?  advertise,  Jemima  Ann,  and  try  my  fortune  twice." 
She  does;  aftèr  à  score  or  more  attempts  an  advôr- 
tisement  is  drawn  up.    ït  is  a  répugnant  task,  this  cold- 
blooded  chroniclihg  of  what  she  can  do  ;  it  sounds  boast- 
fui  and  blatant,  read  over.     One  is  written  at  last,  that 
Jemima  Ann   pronounces   perfection,  and  \^hich  Mrs. 
Trillon  finds  the  best  she  can  do— and  it  is  sealed  up  in 
an  envelope,  and  dropped,  before  Jemima  seeks  her  vestal 
-   cwuch,  Jn^The  neâresr  letter=tïOX.  — 

There  follows  an  interval  which  Jemima  Ann  em- 
^Q^s  ip^  looking  out  for  work  for  herself.,  Dolorcs  trict 


't  * 


■■■-*,. 

(1 


>3c*    _      -     .a-' 


*"îi. 


.'nvij 


:^^f»; 


AIL     TIMES    PASS  ^OVER. 


^3» 

to  dissuade  her.  «  If  I  get'a  situation  al  governess,"  she 
says,  '^ it  wiU  suffice  for  us  both.^  Your  work  will  be  to 
Icecp  this  httle  house  bright  and  cozy." 

But  Jemima  is  as  résolu  te  wlien  she  likesasheryoun? 
mistress.  "No,  Miss  Snowbalt,"  she  says  earnestly,  "thaï 
would  neVer  satisfy  me.  I  must  do  something  for  my 
keep-sewing  if  I  can  get  it-as  well  as  you.  I  will  hâve 
plentyoftimeforthehousekeeping.  Xhere  ainVno  kînd 
P  ?»°  .sewing  I  ain't  up  to,  I  guess,  and  Mis'  Scudder. 
our  landlady,  has  took  a  kind  o'  fancy  to  me  ff  om  the  first. 
aad  she  reckons  she  can  get  me  something  to  (J9  pretty 

Mrs.  Scudder  proves  to  be  as  good  as  her  word.  She 
firets  Jemima  Ann  «slop  "  shirt  making,  and  plenty  of  it  • 
coarse  work,  and  wearily  unremunerative  priées,  but 
still  a  help  ;  and  from  thenceforth  Jemima  is  as  busy  as 
a  bee  and  as  happy  as  a  queen. 

But  Dolores'  ambitions  advertisement  seems  as  bread 
cast  upon  the  waters.  Mapy  days  elapse  and  -h  does  no£ 
returfl.  Answers  there  are,  and  terms  are  stated,  and 
applications  are  personally  made  ;  but,  somehow,  nothing 
comesof  thesé  negotiatiohs ;  the  référence'  question 
stands  in  the  way  again.  Pretty  you,g  widows,  highly 
accomphshed,without  références,  are  not  désirable  pre- 
•ceptresses  for  innocent  youth,  and  a  fair,  sweet  face,  and 
gentle,  graceful  manners,  fail  to  compensate. 

At  last,  in  November,  when  blank  despair  is  comin» 
upon  her,  one  impulsive  lady  falls  in  love  at  sight  with 
her  pathetic  pale  face  and  great  wistful  blue  eyes  and 
low,  sweet-toned  voice,  and  braves  fate  and  références, 
and  engages  her  as  French  and  music  teacher  to  her  twô 
boys  on  the  spot.  Even  without  a  référence  she  can  do 
no  particular  harm .  to  WiUy  and  Freddie,  aged  ten  and 
*'^^*''^-    She  is  closely  wati^d  foraJittlp.  nnd  if»  fouad 


-To  béa  pamstaking  teacher,  even  more  gentle  and  win^ 


mng  than  she  looks 

J*!  Nothi^sMcceeds  like  success."    Her  first  employer 


.^««. 


\J. 


,  * , 


.ii^^Èy^|rfÉaL.î»i*^"&1,'j,4*sv-*«*  y.*--*. . 41*' «<â|fe»«:.'^j lài^ 


43» 


y4ZZ  'TIMES    PASS    OVE^., 


speaks  of  her  pretty  paragon  to  her  friends,  and  speedily 
three  othcr  engagements  follow.  And  now,  ail  day 
long,  benold  Dolores,  draped  in  waterproof  and  vail,  a 
roll  of  music  in  her  hand,  fully  establishedasa  "  trottinjg 
governess,"  and-adding  dollars  and  dollars  monthly  to 
their  humble  ménage. 

About  Christmas  »iie  is  engagéd  as  finishing  governess 
to  Miss  Blanche  Pettingill,  sole  daughter  of  the  house 
and  heart  of  Peter  Pettingill,  Esquire,  of  Lexington 
avenue,  millionai.re  and  woolen  manufacturer,  the  wife 
of  whose  bosom^iterally  hangs  herself  with  diamonds, 
and  blazes  with  thetn  at  hér  big  parties  up  in  the  brown- 
stone  palace  in  this  one  of  New  York's  stateliest  avenues. 
There  is  a  villa  at  Newport,a  homesteadup  the  Hudson, 
a  winter  place  in  Florida,  and  the  encbanted  princess 
who  is  to  hâve  ail  this  one  day  is  nineteen  years  old,  and 
rather  an  ignoramûs  than  otherwise,  and  has  suddénly 
wakened  up  to  that  fact,  and  maïde  up  her  mind  to  atone 
for  lost  time  by  studying  under  the  prett|y  and  gentle, 
and  bbscure  Madame  Trillon. 

"  Pa  says  he  would  give  ten  thousand  dollars  to  hâve 
me  able  to  play,  and  sing,  and  talk  French  as  you  do, 
Mrs.  Trillon,"  says  the  princess,  with  a  despairing  sigh  ; 
"  I  wish  to  goodness  he'd  hâve  thought  of  it  half  a  dozen 
years  ago.  He  ha^^been  so  busy  making  liioney  ever 
since  I  can  remembér,  and  ma's  been  so  busy  spending 
it,  that  thev  neither  of  thent  he^d-time  to  attend  to  my 
éducation,  and  hère  I  am  an  heii^ess  and  everything,  and 
hardly  an  accomplishment  about  me.  And  when-a  per- 
son  is  ninetÊen,  and  in  society,  studying  langiiages,  and 
dbing  pianoforte  drudgery,  is  no  end  of  a  bol^." 

Mrs.  Trillon  sympathizes,  does  her  best,  and  spends 
tiiree  hours  daily  in  the  Lexington  avenue  mâînsion, 
secluded  in  Miss  Blanche's  boudoir.     For  it  is  to  be  a 


sccrcc  xroin  six  eue  wonci  xnsr 
bel ng  given  to  Miss  Blanche. 
V    *«,Jhaf  is  what  I  like  Mrs.  Trillon  for,**  rcYnarks  Miss 


thwpoHshii^gH»- 


(jl  _♦  ^>fr*     ^    i  J.iLt    V    '        ^^*U!^ 


\  ' 


ALL    TIMES    PÀSS    OVER.   '  433 

Pettingill  to  Mrs.  Pettingill,  «she  knows  how  to  hold 
her  tongue.    And  yet  she  is  sympathedc,  you  can  see  she 

a  ^      J      ^  ^^''^  ^  ^°"^*^  «^«*"  l^e  like  her." 
tPr  ^     "»  TriUon  is  a  person,  I  guess,  who  has  seen  bet- 
ter  days,"  responds  mamma. 

fa/kr^^n^K^îl  Plays  and  sings  perfectly  splendid,  and 
Dut  1  knojlgftust  hâve  a  story,  and^a  romande  one.  if 
doToTlIluljr""-  «-^--caoaskWes! 
It  is  at  the  Pettingill  mansion  that  Dolores  is  this  wild 
and  blustery  March  afternoon,  while  Jemima  Ann  rt  f s 
the  fire  and  looks  expectantly  out  of  the  window  and 
wa,ts  for  her  coming  home.  It  is  latè  when  sheTôm^ 
neither  wet  nor  weary  from  the  howling  storm.  but  Si 
laaghmg,  and  «rith  cheeks  and  eyes  brighf  with  the  frUy 

T  irn?^'  T^°T  '*^*^'"  *^"^'  ^«°^^""^'  "  yo"  are  half  dead. 

No  I  didn  t,    retums  Dolores,  laughing.    «I  rode, 
but  not  m  the  stage.    They  sent  me  in    the  carr^^ 
M.SS  Pettingill  would  hâve  it  so.    They  Z  Z^li 
best-natured  people  in  the  world.    They  wisheTme  !^> 
stay  ail  night,  and  as  I  would  not,  insist  JoIthelL^a*^  ^ 
Issupperready?  for  I  am  hungry,  although  î^  S 

aW     «tT^*""'""'^'   *°'"^y^   J«™i™a,    bustUn/ 
?n  the  rnl  ^  f  ^°"'  '^^°^^  "*y  ^^-7,  arid  sit  he« 
and  it  will  be  on  the  table  in  ±en  min„f«c  •»  ^  ^^^y* 


u 


How 


table  in  len  minutes, 
cozy  it  is  hère."  Dolon»s  says,  with  a  ddicious 


.u' 


Wtot  ,^ear  l.ttle  home  we  hâve,  aqd  what  a  queef  of 


'J    » 


4 


.4. 


Mâ, 


434  V       J^' TIMES    PASS    OVEJt^' 


bousekeépers  is  my  Jemitna  Ann.  It  is  very  splendid  up 
there  in  the  Pettingill  palace,  but  I  really  do  not  think  I 
would  care  to  excliange.  I  like  our  duodecimo  editioa 
of  houàekee^ing  best" 

3upper  is  served— two  or  tiiree  délicate  little  dishes, 
and  tea  brewed  to  the  point  of  perfection.     Outside,  the. 
whistling  and  lashing  of  the  March  night  accents  the 
sensé  ofcomfort  and  warmth. 

"  There  is  to  be  a  prodigious  party  up  at  the  Pettin- 
gîU's  next  week,"  says  Dolores,  as  they  sit  and  discuss 
their  r^past.  "  Quite  a  mammoth  gathering  oif  the  plutoc- 
racy  of  New  York,  ànd  I  am  to  go  and  play  the  accom-' 
panimènts  of  Blanche's  songs.  She  has  not  much  courage 
al^out  performing  in  public,  although  shç  ^eally  has  a 
very  nice  voice,  and  absolutely  insî»ts  that  I  shall  play 
the  accompanimen^  I  do  not  like  it,  but  I  cannot  re- 
fuse, they  are  so  extremely  nice  to  me,  and'  Blanche  is 
sùch  a  dear,  simple-minded,  good-natured  little  soûl. 
The  piano  is  to  be  placed  in  a  sort  of  bower  of  tall  flower- 
ing  plants,  and  I  shall  be  pretty  well  screened  from  the 

.Company.  I  must  get  a  dress  for  the auspicious  occasion 
— wbite  trimmed  with  black,  I  suppose,  and  jet  oma- 
ments,  to  keep  up  myy  character  of  à  widow  in  half 
mouming.  f  find  the  whole  thing  rather  a  bore,  but  I 
cànuQt  disappoint  Miss  Pettingill.'' 

So,  in    the   lamp-lit,  fire-lit   liltle   parlor  they  sit 
together  and  chat  over  the  doings  of  the  day.    Thèse 

.  evening  home-comings  are  çlelightful  to  both-^Dolores 
snugly  enscpQced  in  the  rocker,  Jemimawith  her  sewing 
at  t^e  table.  There  is  tàlk,  and  music— and  the  shrill 
beating  of  ^rain  and  sleet  without,  and  perfect  peace^^ 
monotonous  pefhaps,  but  very  grateful,  tirithin.  ' 

"  If  it  wili  only  last,'*^'Bolpres  says,  looking  dreàmily 
intb  the  fire  ;    "at  times  it   àeeigs  almost  too   good. 

"^^^'wT^T)ésrtH^Tff^r^w'^r^3^inià  Ann?^^ 


better  than  love,  with  its  fevér,  better  than  wl»Ul}^w^tb 


Its  cares. 


If  itwilloplylasti?. 


t  \ 


K         •       * 


m 


\éA  r-Vi 


ALL    "tIMES    PASS    OVER. 


.    435 


It  is  the  night  ôf  the  great  balfup  on   Lexington 
avenue.     The.  big  brown  corner  house  is  aïl  a-glitter 
V     with  gas,  a  ïengthy  row  of  carriages  wind  down  the 
>  .«tately  strèet,  a  little  crowd  has  gathered  to  see  the 
'  ;  guèsts  gô  in,  inusic  resounds.     Mrs.  Pettingill,  ail  alight 
with  those  famous  diamènds,  like  an  Indian  idol,  rer 
ceives  her  friends.    Miss  Blanche,  in  a  wonderful  dress 
froni  Paris,  stands  near,  looking  flushed  and  nervbus, 
;      and  wishing,  more  thàn  ev^r  before,  pa's  wealth  could* 
^    buy  for  her  Mrs.  Trillon's  beaiitiful,  gracious,  graceful 
mannei^.      Mfs.  Trillon   is    up-stairs  in    the  boudoir, 
wheré,  by  her  own  dpsire,  she  is  to  be  left  until  sum- 
moped  for  those  songs.     Miss  Pettingill  has  had  butone 
flurried  moment  with  her.  '         *         /  - 

"  It  will.be  even  worse  than  I  thought/'  she  exclaims,* 
jn  a  pânic  of  nervous  appréhension,  "there  is  an 
Englishman  coming,  somebody  very  great,  a  nobleman, 
I  believe,  and  I  wish  he  was  safely  bacfc.  in  his  o^ 
country.  Me  is  coming  with  the  Colbarts-r^he  is  theS 
guest  while  in  New  York.  ^Itwas  bad  €nough  before, 
goodness  knows  ;  it  will  be  dteadiul—dread/ul  tp  hâve 
to  sing  before  him."  -  ,       •       - 

Dolores  laughs.    •  '  \  ,    *!> 

"I  really  do  not  see  why.     Let  jus  hope  the^noblemaû 
is  nà  musical  critic.    What  is  his  name  ?'*     ' 

"There  is  ma  calling,"  c?ries  excitable  Miss  Pettingill. 
<*  I  wish— É  wish  ma  wouldn't  insist  upon  my  singing, . 
but  jhe  does,  and  I  know— I  feel  I  shall  break  down  and 
disgrâce  myself  forever."         ^  .     ' 

She  Aies  away,  and  Dolores  settles  for ià"quiet  liour  or 

two  over  a  new  book.    The  swejling  inusic  floatfup  to 

.her,  sounds  of  laughter  and  gay  voîces  reaoh  He^  note 

and  then,  but  the  story  she  reads  absorbs  her  presëntly, 

Jjid^hftn  atJAStillfi  messagft  cornes  thatitig  timc  to-gô^ 


^ui^ 


down,  she  starts  up,  surprised  to  find  it  so  late. 

"And  you  need  not  go  through  the  crowded  rootn," 
says  Miss  Pettingill's  maid,  who  comea  for  her,  "al« 


*  < 


*t  ' 


A       7  'f 


a. 


*.' 


'  '^-^ 


^ï 


4, 


!<*' 


kî?' 


2^S^«!  ^ 


Y 


43^ 


jilZ'T/4f£S    PASS    dVEJR.. 


though,"  with  an  honestadmiringglance  at  the crisp  new 
dress  and  ornament«îrthrgolden  "curled  hair  and  flower 
face,     there  is  not  ^iady  down  there  that  looks  prettier 
thaft^you,  Mr^  TriUon.     I  can  take  you  right  tù  thc 
piano  without  pass%  among  the  people  at  ail."         - 
"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Trillon  says,  "tbât  will  be  best."        t 
They^e,  and  manage  to  make  their  way  almost  un- 
noticed  to  where  .the  big  Steinw'ay  st^nd3.    Tall  shrubs, 
and  a  very  bower  of  ferns  and  lofty  plants,  almost  corn- 
pletely  screen  the  instrument  and  the  perfo?mer.  Blanche 
cornes  up  in  a  flutter  of  appréhension  and  nervousness. 

From  where  sha  sits  Dolores  can  see  far  down  the 

dazzling  vista  of  light,  and  flowers,  and  thronged  rooms, 

nerself  invisible.  ^  ■        °  » 

"Courage!"  she  whispers,  brightly  ;   «imagine  we 

are  alone,  and  it  is  our  daily  music  lesson."  • 

She  strikes  the  fir^tchords  of  the  symphony,and  Miss 
Blanche  bursts  into  song. 

A  little  group  follows  the  heiress  and  listens  to  her 
song.  Dolores  glances  through  her  verdant  bower  as  shé 
plays  thinking  of  other  nights  and  scènes  like  this  in" 
far-off  lands,  when  she  was  queen  of  th^  revels.  Of  that 
other  bail  that  seems  so  far  oflf  now,  at  Lady  Rather- 
ripe's,  where  Colonel  Deering  was  her  devoted  slave,  and 
,^e  came  upon  that  never-to-be-forgotten  scène  between 
her  husband  and  Camilla  Routh.  A  chill,  creeping 
feeling  makes  her  shiver  in  the  perfumed  waïmth  as  she 
recallait .  some  of  the  shame,  the  pain,  the  anger,  the 
hunted  feehng  of  that  night  returns  to  her. . 

Andyet  it  is  as  a  dream  now— a  bad  dream,  that  îs 
over  and  gone.     That  life  is  at  an  end  forever.    There  is 
no  longer  a   Dolores,   Lady  Valentine-only  a    Mrs.  • 
Trillon,  who  teaches  for  a  salary,  and  walks  the  New 
York  streets  in  shabby  dresses,  and  lives  iû  a  poky  five- 

--ï^ooœcdflatvaodTjJayïlVftss  marche  Pettliïgilï'sà^cdm^ 
pamments  for  so  much  per  night.    That  life  has  como 
and  gone  like  a  dream,  and  she  is  quite  content— or  triéi 


^   h; 
tl 


-"■i'.f  '\*>r\*¥''^ 


(   -nx^ 


A£Z    THINGS    EVEN. 


hard  to  think  shé  is~to  let  life  go  on  indifferently  liko 
this. 

The  song  ends,  atid  with  no  disastrous  breakdowta.' 
There  is  a  soft  murtnur  ot  thanks  and  pleasure,  and 
Blanche  breathes  again.    But  the  respite  is  only  for  a 
moment.  * 

"Hère  is— "  *         .  . 

Doloi-es  doesnot  catch  the  name,  lost  tû  the  last 
vibrating  chords  she  strikes,  but  a  flutter  goes  ail  at 
once  through  the  little  circle  behind  her.  ^ 

^  "Oh  r"  cries  Blanche,  with  a. gasp  of  very real  horror, 
"itisthe  Englishmanand  ma!  Now  I  kmnu  shç  will 
make  me  sing  again  !'*  v 

Doloreshalf  laughs  at  the  anguish'of  the  tone,  the 
tragic  terrer  of  the  look,  and  peeps  with  considérable 
curiosity  throiigjh  her  leafy  screen.  She  sees  coming 
down  the  long, ,  brilliant  J-oom  Mrs.  Pettingill,  in  her 
diamonds  and  moire  antique,  on  the  arm  of  a  tall,  dark 
gentleman^  who  does  not  look  in  the  least  like  an 
Englishman.  ::  And  as  she  lopks  the  room  spins  round, 
the  gas-lights  flash  out  and  blind  her,  a 'toist  cornes 
.  before  her  eyes,  her  heart  absoluteîy  stops  beating. 

For  the  man  on  whose  arm  Mrs.  Pettingill  lean^  the 
English  "noblen^an  "  côming  straight  to  where  she  sitâ, 
U— Sir  Vane  VaJentine  !        ,  *     . 


[HE?  sits  for  one  dizzy  i^oment,  stunned,  bewil* 
dered,1motionless.     Herhusband  î—and  hi»>Ty , 


'     "À 


*jMb.t,;.«s^^ 


"^      •       CHAPTER' XXXIX. 
:^«  tOR,  TIME  AT  LAST  BUKES  ALL  THINGS  EVEN,"  ^ 


— draii^ring  nearer,  his  hW  a  little  bèpt,  lis-    :f  J 
tening  to   what  his  host^s  is  saying,  with 
something  of  a  bored  look  in  his  salloW,  dissatisfied  face. 


n 


a'     ' 


n 


5»j*  ■. 


irfZ^    THINGS    EVEN. 


She  liolds  her  breatb,  and  sits  gazing*/1ield  by  some- 
thing  of  that  «ubtl^,  horrible  fascination  with  whîtha 
serpent  holds  its  quivering  victini.  They  are  alfeady 
within  fivc  yards  of  her  ;  a  secoua  or  two  and  they  will 
be  face  to  face  !  ' 

And  then— what  will  he  do  then  ?  ^e  ifetes  a  scène — 
will  he  màke  one  bef ore  ail  thèse  people  ?  As  she  thin ks, 
her  brain  whirling,  some  one  meets  them,  and  Mrs.  Pet- 
tlngill  pauses  for  a  moment  to  introduce  the  some  one 
to  th*  lion  of  the  night. 

.  And  then,  like  a  flash,  Dolores  awakes  from  her 
stunned  torpor.  He^has  not  seen  her  ;  it  is  not  yet  too 
lafce  ;  no  one  is Jooking  at  her;  Blanche  is  wàtching,  in 
a  flutter  of  appréhension,  the  approach  of  ma  and  her 
nobleman.  ^y) 

She  starts  to  her  feet,  slips  between  thctall  plants,  Aies 
eut  of  the  room,  down  a  long  hall,  up  the  stairs,  and  into 
th«  room  she  so  lately  left.  Ifter  hat  and  mantlè  lie 
whçre  she  threw  them  upon  enteriûg  ;  she  snatchesthem 
up,  bréathlessly,  and  puts  them  oïL  No  time  to  stop,  no 
time  to  think,  no  time  to  fal'ter  br  hesitate.  Flight  !— 
that  is  her  one  i'dea  ;  to  get  awayffrom  this  housé— from 
him-^without  a  second's  loss  of  time.  X  sickening  fear 
of  hiîn  fills  her-ra  blind,  unreasoning  fear,  that  bids  her 
fly  and  heedno  conséquences.  A  clock  on  the  mantel 
s^ikes  two.  It  is  an  unearthly  hour  to  be  out  alone  in 
the  streets  of  New  York  ;  but  she  never  heeds  that — 
nothing  that  can  befall  her  can  be  as  terrible  as  meeting 
Vane  Valentine. 

With  the  thought  in  her  mind,  she  is  down  the  stairs, 
«nd  out  of  the  house,  and  hurrying  rapidly  down  the 
«îlent  Street.  It  is  moonlight,  bright  and  cold.  There  is 
no  wind,  and  the  cold,  keen  air  she  does  not  feel.  If  it 
were  blowing  a  hurricane  she  would  not  feelit  now. 
She  tsfilled  with  bût  one^dwi— to  get  hôffiè,  tô  hîdé  héK" 
self;  to  flyto  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  if  need  b^ 
from  t|iis  man.    Of  course  he  is  hère  in  seàrch  of  her. 


i; 


-  <%  t , 


'«>-/ 


•Tm<!"' 


■«.-v 


v/ 


i^^^'V 


) 


ALL    THJNGS    EVEN. 


439 


Will  her  sudden  disappearance  to-night  create  comment, 
and  come  to  his  ears  ? — quick  and  suspicious  éars  always. 
Will  he  ask  questions,  and  get  a  description  of  her,  and 
recognize  her  at  once  ?  Will  he  sèt  the  city  détectives 
on  her  track,  and  hunt  her  down  t.  It  will  not  be  difficult 
' — ^an  assùmed  name  is  but  a  thin  disguise.  And  when  ho 
bas  found  her,  what  then  ? 

"  I  will  die  before  I  return  to  him,"  she  sifk  albud, 
as  she  Aies  breathlesslj  on.  "No  law,  no  power  on 
earth  shall  compel  me  ;  I  will  never  go  back — n^ver  !" 
She  is  panting  and  breathless  with  her  hàste  ;  once  or 
twice  apassing  '♦  guardian  of  the  night  "  tries  tostop  and 
accost  her,  but  she  is  past  like  a  flash  before  he  -can 
frame  the  words.  She  may  be  pursued^she  does  nbt 
know — they  will  be  fleet  walkers  who  will  overtake  her 
to-night.  At  last,  witbeut  harm  or  molestatipn,  but 
spent,  gaspiing,  fainting  with  fatigue,  she  unlocks  her 
door,  and  drops  in  a  heap  on  the  little  parlor  sofa. 

Ifemima  Ann  is  in  bed  and  asleep  ;  she  is  not  expected 
back  until  to-morrow.  She  does  not  wake  her,  she  lies 
there  in  a  sort  of  stupor  of  exhaustion,  and  at  last  drops 
asleep.  And  so,  still  sleeping,  when  wjlth  the  morning 
sunshine  Jemima  Ann  rises,  she  finds  her — dressed  aa 
she  came  in,  with  the  exception  of  her  l^^t,  which  lies  on 
the  floor  beside  her.  Hef  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
alarm,  faint  though  it  is,  arouses  Dolorés — she  sits  up 
in  a  bewildered  way,  and  looks  with  wild  eyes  at  l«r 
friend.  '  '. 

"Jemima,"  she  cries,  "  he  has  con\e." 

"  Lor  !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  and  sits  down  flat    She 
needs  no  antécédent  to  the  pronoun  ;  there  is  but  one'il^* 
for   thèse    two    in    the    u  ni  verse— their    arch   enemy« 
"  Lord's  sake  !  Miss  Snowball,  you  never  mean  that  !" 
'.       "  I  saw  him  last  night.     He  was  at  Mrs.  Pettlngill'fl    , 


fia 


party.    I  got  up  and  fied.     I  ran  out  of  the  house  at  two 
in  the  morning,  and  never  stopped  to  draw  breath,  it 


>-^' 


\-«-. 


lMi^*^/i'lai}^ 


-A* 


If]; 


:4 


■■l 


^ZZ    THINGS    EVEN 

séems  to  me,  until  I  fell  down   hère.      Jemiina-oh- 
^  Jemima  !  what  shall  %e  do  ?"  Jernima-oh, 

*    "Lordsake!"  exclaims  Jernima  Ann  again,  stunned. 

ca^Mtlher-^ltogether  stupefie^by  the  magnituàe  of  tho 

*;  We  must  leave  bcre,  Jemima-we  must  go  to-dar 
He^^  hen^tosearch  fc^  me  r  he  wiU  never  re^^^mif^ 

■     "Wyûere^    she  says,  despairingly. 
'         ButJemima'switsarebeginningtoreturn. 

'  Sâc^wecLL•^•"*^.^^^^^^^^  ^^^  City  is  the  safest 
under  false  names  hère,  in  a  crowded  part  of  the  town 
Wce  this,  why  he  wiU  find  us  go  where  we  n^y.  I  don't 
believe  m  flying;  it  ain't  a  miteo'good.  Let  us  iust 
stay  hère,  and  face  it  out.»  ^  S     «•    i-et  us  just 

«Just  t^t""**  '^°"'  ''  "^""^^  ^"^  ""f  *°  ^^«  hî°»;  I  think- 
«Bless  W^y  deary,  no,  it  wouidn't.    Ittakes  a 
^ght  more  \  kiîl  us  than  we  reckon  for.    Bes  d^s  yo^    . 
can  refuse  to>ee  him-you  can  fly,  you  know  whin  k 

V^ntL" «'""  "^'^^  "  '^^°^°'  t-  doto  youTsfr  Vane 
Valentine  may  go  to  grass  !    This  is  a  free  countnr  I 

gupss;  Ihereain^nolorasever  I  heerd  on  to  ml£a 
wife  go.back  to  ;  husband  as  ill-treated  her,if  The'sa 
imfid  to  work  for  her  own  livin'.    He  can't  ^rr^  /ou  oS 

offlf  he^iAX  ^'°^^«'^°d  yo"  wouidn't  stay  carrie4 
off  if  he  did.  jWe  can't  run  away-we  ain't  got  no  money 
andwe  re^setf  ed  hère  like,  and  making  a  nL  liv^  We 

MMa^  Snowrbalf,  mjr  pretty,  don't  you  be  skeered-lS' 


.,&,r  •  - 


ttanfc  the  Lord,  and  he  can't  carry  things  with  m 


■N- 


=^ 


1^^' 


-oh, 


*.     V 


t.C- 


\ 


ALL    THINGS    EVl 


=^ 


hîgh  hand  hère  id  New  York  city,  as  ô^r  thert  at  Val- 
endne.  But  I  don't  believe  he'll  find  us  anyhow.  No 
one  kaows  our  real  naines,  and  the  Pehnigills  don't 
koow  where  you  live.  Don't  you  be  scared,  |diss  Snow- 
bail,  iny  deary.  I  don't  believe  he'U  ever  finaVs  out  at 
.ail."    ' 

Jemima  Ann  has  reason  on  her  side,  and  as  she  says, 
they  cannot  afford  to  fly.  Whatever  cornes,  they  must  per- 
forée stay  and  face  it  out.  So  Dolores  lets  her  first  panic  be 
soothed,  and  yield^^-JBut  it  is  s«|ttled  she  is  to  gb  on  the 
-  Street  no  more  at  aÎHoir  the  présent,  and  their  doors  are 
to  be  kept  locked  to  ali  the  world.  - 

"I  shali  lose  Miss  Pettingill,  and  ail  my  other  pupils," 
she  says,  mournfuUy  ;  '*and  I  had  so  much  trouble  get- 
ting'them.     I  hardly  know  What  we  are  to  do,  Jemima 
Ann.    MJrs.  Pettingill  and  Blanche  will  think  I  mt^t 
'  suddenly  hâve  gône  crazy."  P 

"They  must  think  what  they  please  for  awhile,  1. 
i'eckon.     In  a  week  or  two  I  might  go  up  early  some 
morbing  with  a  note  from  you^to  say  you  was  kind  o* 
ailin'  or  somethin';  for  -gettin*  along,  we  will  get  along,' 
'  never  you  fear.    I  hâve  saved  something,  and  I  mean  te 
work  double  tides  until  you  get  about  again.    The  worst 
thing  about  it  ail  is,  that  you  will  fret,  and  the  confine- 
ment to  thèse  close,  rootns  will  hurt  your  health." 

But  fretdng  and  confinement  must  be  borne.  And 
now  for  the  second  time  a  dreary  interval  of  waiting  and 
watching,  and  daily  dread  sets  in.  Behind  the  closed 
blinds  Dolores  sits  ail  day  long,  anxiously  peering  into 
the  Street,  drawing  back  whenever  a  passer-by  chances 
to  glance  up,  seeing  i^  every  raSn  who  looks  at  the  house 
a  détective  on  her  track.  Jemima  Ann  does  her  errands^ 
at  the  earliest  hour  of  opening  the  grocer's,  and  sews  by 
Jier  jmstres.yssidealUhe.re$t4?iJh&jfe 


to  help  her,  but  it  H  little  better  thàn  an  effort  ;  the  dread 
of  discovery  paralyzesall  her  énergies.  She  cànhot  settle 
to  sew,  to  read,  to  praclice  ;  she  sits  ihrough  the  long 


19' 


,»  ' 


'1, 


^    i- 


l^jMMiiyj 


missrsssBÊÊÊKai''^ 


S^/'t  ■* 


i.y 


'* 


t 


f 


144a 


hours,  sileat,  anxious,  pale.  It  is  ao  unreasoping  dread, 
morbid  and  out  of  proportion  wlth  its  cause  ;  she  simply 
Jee^  as  sbe  bas  said,  that  If  ahe  meett  him  she  will  die. 
Five  days  go  by,  very,  very  slowly,  but  without'  a 
Word  or  sign  of  discovtry.  Then  a  fhoclc  ail  at  onde 
comes.  t      ■ 

It  comres  in  the  %\a^  of  a  letter,  delivered  by  the 
postman,  and  addressed  to  M  ri.  Trilt^n.  She  turns  quite 
white  as  she  receives  it.  "  Haft  thou  found  me,  oh,  mine 
enemy  ?"  is  the  cry  of  hcr  heart.  No^one  knows  hei/ad- 
dress  ;  this  is  the  first  letter  addressed  to  her  sincè  she 
bas  been  in  New  York.  Il  !•  in  a  man's  hand— no[  her 
husttand's,  but  what  of  that  ?--and  is  correctly  dirècted 
bothas  to  Street  and  number.  She  sits  with  it  iA  her 
hand,  in  a  tremor  of  nertQUi^  affright  that  shakes  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

♦      "  Open  it,  my  deary,  don't  you  be  afraid.    Lor~Sir 

Vane  Valentine  can't  eat  you.    Open  it  ;  he  âîn't  inside 

theenvelope,  wherever  he  if,"  tays,  cheerily,  Jemîma  kx^, 

:She  obeys,  with  shaking  fingers.    It  is  dated  ^0^ 

Yôlrif,  and  the  day  before. .  Sbe  glances  at  the  sign^))rr<^ 

and  utters  a  cry,  for  the  name  at  the  end   is 

Valentine.  i,^. 

-    '' Read  it,  Miss  Snowball— read  it  out  aloud  1^. 

Jemima,  in  a  transport  of  curiofity,  and  Dolores  o' 

It  is  short. 

«New  York,  March  î»7,  18— . 
♦*  My  DEAR  Snowball  :— I  may  stillcall  you  by  the  old 
name,  may  I  not?— the  dear  little  pet  name  by  which  *  M. 
Paul  'bas  so  often  called  you.  It  will  not  alarm  you, 
^uiely,  to  know  that  I  am  hère,  and  hâve  found  you? 
My  dear  child,  you  know  you  may  trust  your  old  friend. 
I  havecrossed  the  océan  insearch  of  you,  and  am  most 
desirous  of  seeing  you  at  once.  I  will  call  iipon  you 
'  is  afternoojL    \&9!aAxï&^.9A%si  aviÊuiicmtrUr^t^ 


'm^^ 


iïr- 


* 


v. 


thé  shock  of  the  surprise.    You  are  living  in  strictei9| 
«eclusion,  I  know  but  you  will  see  me,  I  feel  sure.  -Are 


\, 


T. 


«Jt  --^  ' 


Iread,  \ 
mply 
il  die. 
jut"'  a    • 
once 

y  the 
quite 
nnne 
îi/ad- 

é  she    -- 

F  ^®ï 
BCted 

t  her 

i  her 


*■ 


!,■- 


ïît-rt»-. 


15^ 


ï«pj^: 


AZZ    THJNGS    BVEN. 


443 


you  aware  that  Vane  Valentine  is  also  in  thiacity,  alio 
m  search  of  you  ?  He  has  not  found  you,  and  départs,  I' 
am  told,  in  a  few  days.  You  need  not  fear  )iim,  I  think. 
Ât  présent  he  is  about  starting  with  one  Mr.  Lionel  Col- 
bert  on  the  trifil  trip  of  the  latter  gentleman's  yacht  down 
the  ba;^.  I  shall  call  at  your  lodging  at  three  this  after- 
noon.  Until  then,  my  dear  SnowbalU  I  am,  as  ever, 
"  Your  faithful  friend, -^jl^^rQïORGï  Valentini." 

"Thank  the  Lord  f^^^^S»  mercies  1"  ejaculates, 
piously,  Jemima  Ânn.    j|^p|%^' 

"  But  do  you  believe  i^^^p^i^olores,  the  glad  flush 
fading.from  her.face,  and  t^ànxious  contraction  grbw- 
ing  habituai  there,  bending  her  brows  ;  "  it  may  be  a  ruse. 
It  may  be  the  work  of  Sir  Vane  himself,  or  of  his  eiâia- 
saries.    Oli,  Jemima  t  I  ain  afraid — afraid  !"   .^ 

''Now,  Miss  Snowbàll»  there  ain't  no  reason.  That 
sounds  like  an  honest  letter,  and  I  believe  it.  At  three 
'^fhis  afternoon  ^'11  be  on  the  watch  down  at  the  front 
door,  and  if  irlçm't  ft|r.  Valentine — well^  then,  the  party 
that  comas  «mivlia^eisiome  troii|)le  in  i^tting  Into  this 
room.  Don't  you  be  afeared.  Jùst  put  on  your  prettiest 
dress  and  perk  lip  a  bit,  for  you  oio  look  that  pale  and 
thin.  Miss  Snowbali,  that  it's  quite  heart-breakin'  to  see 
you  ;  and  trust  to  me  to  keep  him  out  if  ^^^^e  wrdng 
man.  /If  it's  the  right  one,  as  ^  f eel  sur^f^s,  ail  ojir 
troubfes  is  at  an  end.  Â  man's  such  a  coofort  at  times. 
when  a  body's  in  a  muddle,  and  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I  wonder,"  says  Jemima  Ann,  sti^ching  away  diligently, 
and  keeping  her  eye^pn  hçr  w^k,"if  l^ir.  Ra;^neyis 
^th.him?"  -■\'"^%-    ■  ;'     ■*¥:'•    ■    ■" 

There.  is  a  sound  as  of  a  sudden  catchingôf  thebreath 
at  mention  of  that  name,  but  no  reply.  Indeed,  Dolores 
faardly  speaks  again  for  hours.    She  sits  silentfy^^  her 


l 


•^1 

3«i 


m. 


post  By  thè"  wURTôw,  Tfl  a  fe^ef  Of  ait 

dread;  watching  the  passçrs-by.    She  makes  a  toilet,  as 

Jemiina  Ann  has  su^ested,  she  tries  to  re^  tiiles  to 


i"*." 


lifï 


'a€'jfe'  \. 


\.  ;_■' 


ffi- 


444 


^W#^^^'^*«^f^^?f^^f^ 


'-->. 


/ 


A£Z    THINGS    EVEN. 


play,  walks  up  and  down,  and  has  worked  heraélf  intoa 
feverish  and  flushed  headache  long  before  three  o'clock. 

It  strikes  at  last.  She  résumes  her  place  by  the  win- 
dow,  and  clenches  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  as  if  to 
hold  herself  still  by  force.   At  the  moment  the  bell  rings. 

"  There  .'"cries  Jemima  Ann. 
'  •  Both  start  to  their  feet.  Jemima  Ann  hnrries  down 
stairs,  locking  the  door  behind  her,  and  Dolores  stands 
pale,  breathless,  her  hand  still  unconsciously.  clenched, 
hèr  heart  beatîng  to  suflfocation.  It  seems  tô  her  the  su- 
premest  hour  of  her  life.  She  hears  a  joyful  cry  frora 
Jemima,  and  the  maid  rushes  joyously  in. 

"Oh,  Miss  Snowball  !  dear  Miss  Snowball  !  it's  ail 
right— it's  him  !  ît's  hhn  !" 

And  then  before  her,  tall,  strong,  handsome,  bearded, 
resolute,  good  to  see,  comes  George  Valentine. 

The  quick  révulsion  of  feeling,  the  sudden  joy,  takes 
away  her  last  remuant  of  strength.  She  holds  out  both 
hands,  and  would  fall,  so  dizzy  does  she  grow,  but  that 
she  is  in  his  arms,  held  against  his  loyal,  loving  heart. 

"  My  little  Snowball  !  my  dear  little  girl  !"  he  says,  - 
and   stoops  and  kisses    the  pale,  changed   face,  more 
touched  by  that  change  than  he  cares  to  show. 

"  I — how  foolish  I  am,"  she  says,  and  laughs,  with  eyes 
that  brim  over  ;  "  forgive  m^,  M.  Paul*  I  hâve  been 
wretcheâ  and  nervous  lately,  and  the  shock  of  sceinij^ 

you "  .     • 

She  breaks  oflf,  sinks  back  yi  her  chair,  covers  her  face 
Mrith  her  hands,  and,  for  a  little,  utterly  breaks  down.    * 
"  Oli,,  I  beg  your  pardon."  she  says,  "  do  not  mind  me, 
pray.     I  will  be  alk-ight.in  a  moment.    Only  it  so  bringi 
back  the  old  ti mes,  and — oh  !  how  good,  how  good  it  is- 
to  see  a  f riendly  face  again." 

"  That  is  a  pl4|lfeant  hearing,"  he  says,  cheerily  ;  "  so 
wcrc  afraid  my  letter  w«w  »11-^  fuse^    My  dear— 


•"«*(??" 


child,  I  hâve  known  forl^er  a  week  you  were  herdfc    If 
you  had  been  Hiscovered  by  Aatotherf  I  was  aly^ays  ready 


i^  '  ti^ji-j  .J  -J'fl».. 


*.-h-^-#' 


^l.k3Et^4.'^•4'^Mli•î,A'.^.Vrf   •*    C^K 


'^f^E^Ï-' 


P 


^ZZ     TM/NGS    EVEN. 


to  corne  to  the  fescue.     My  poor  little  Snowball  !     Lif© 
has  gOne  hardly  with  you,  I  fear,  since  I  saw  you  last." 

Tears,  hard  to  hold  back,  §pring  to  her  eyes  once 
more;  they  fill,  they  overflow. 

"I  am  very  weak  ;  I  never  used  to  be  a  crying  ani- 
înal,"  she  says  at  last,  trying  to  lau^h  througîFthe  fall- 
ing  drops.  "  Yes,  life  has  gone  hard,  but  I  did  not  mind 
so  greatly  until  I  found  him  hère  after  me.  We  were 
getting  along  so  nicely,  I  was  almost  quite  reconciled 
before  that.  But,  M.  Paul— I  may  call  you  by  the  old 
name,  may  I  not  ?— I  would  rather  die  than  go  back, 
You  will  not  let  him  force  me,  will  you  ?"  she  says. 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  shall  not  go  back— no,"  he  an- 
swers,  "no  one  shall  force  you  against  your  in- 
clinations. You  hâve  nothing  to  fear,  I  think.  He  cer- 
tainly  has  been  in  search  of  you  ;  he  certainly,  also,  bas 
not  as  yet  found  you.  He  traced  you,  as  I  did,  to  Lon- 
dgn,  to  Havre,  to  this  city  ;  but  I  havè  been  more  fortu- 
nate  than  he  hère,  and  havç  discovered  you.  He  is  not 
in  New  ^rk  to-day.  The  yacht  started  on  her  trial  trip 
this  piorning,  to  be  abseAt  a  week  ;  so  your  enforced  îm- 
prisonment  may  end  for  the  piesent.  I  mean  to  take  you 
for  a  drive  this  afternoon— oh,  you  must  !  I  will  hâve  no 
refusai.  I  am  quite  alone  in  New  York  ;  our  good 
friend,  René,  is  in  Rome,  back  at  his  work.  He  wanted 
to  corne.  For  obvions  causes,  it  was  better  he  should 
not  accompany  me.  I  dispatched  to  him  the  mo- 
ment I  discovered  you.  I  am  to  write  to  him  at  length 
to-night.     Hâve  you  any  messages,  Snowball  ?" 

No;    Snowball  has  none— her  remembranccs,  and 
she  is  well — nothing  more.       * 

"  You  hâve  done  nothing  in  the  matter  of  your  claim 
to  the  title  and  estate  ?"  she  asks,  after  a  pause. 

^J^Qthing  !  and  mean  to-dQ.jio|hing,  for  theprcsent^ 


at  least.  René  told  ypu  that,  you  know.  The  exposurc 
of  my  life  to  the  world  would  be  no  easy  thing  for  a  thin- 
stinncd  fellow  like  me  to  bear  ;  I  doubt  if  any  fortun* 


f'?"* 


^^^k*- 


C'-''^Ms4 


»%-► 


H'x^. 


V 


ï%-1 


1%' 


s44« 


-42Z     THINGS    EVEN. 


çould  compens^te  for  it  There  would  be  a  prolon^ed 
contest  no  end  of  names  of  the  living  and^he^df^ 
draggedthrough  the  mud  of  a  public  Lrt  andac^ 
f oundedly  public  press.  Nx>  ;  Sir  Vane  must  remain  ^r 
Vane  I  suppose,  nntil  my  moral  courage  grows  a  goôd 
deal  stronger.  Now  run,  and  wrap  up?  it  is  a  jewfl  oï 
a  day.  Your  imprisonment  bas  lasted  long  enough  •  we 
are  going  for  a  drive  to  the  Park.  in  this  fine  frxjsty  kir.- 

:,  „^^r  ^^''  ^u  '  '^^  '^^'^^  °^  ^^^^^"ff  her  great  enemy 
is  no  longer  m  the  city-the  relief  of  feelinè  she  is  free 
to  go  out  once  more. 

«  A^d  l  wiU  havesupper  ready  when  youlcome  back." 
calls  after  them  Jemima  Ann.  ^ 

.J'  ^«f°  afte^oon  never  to  be  forgotten.  ail  the  more 
enjoyablefor  thegloom.and  terror,  and  hiding,  that  hâve 
gone  before.  Dolores  enjoys  it  thoroughly  ;  the  fl^t 
horses,  the  rapid  moticin,  the  sparkling  air,  the  gay 
Sk  ^.^H  ^"S^^'  ^"■^■giWéd  par«$,^he  cnsp,  cheer^ 
talk,  the  deep,  mellow  laugh  of  her  frieiiJ' <« 

Forthe*exttwodays  life  takes  in  iti  brightest  col- 
ors,  fear  départs,  care  is  thrown  oflF.  Dolqres  lives  in  the 
présent  and  enjoys  it  thoroughly.  "m!  Paul"  comes 
daily,  and  the  Jo^bloom  of  happiness  seems  to  return  at 
fais  biddmg,  aap  by  magie. 

But  on  th^tfcd  day  hedoesnôt  corne.  Theforenoon. 
the  afteriipon,  pass,  and  do  not  bring  him.  Dolores 
grows  alarmed-so  little  startles  her  now-when,  just  at 
dusk.  he  présents  himself.  but  with  a  slowness  of  step  and 
a  gravity  of  face  ail  unusual. 

..  ^  "  Soattthing  has  happened  !"  she  cries,  in  quick  alarm. 
•*  bir  Vane  has  returned  !" 

"  Sir  Vane  has  retumed— yes." 

Her  with  his  grav«^  dark  eyes. 

"Dolores,  dear  child,  ther^  is  nothing  tn  ^p,r  that 
^igKtefted  ïacel^r.    He  has  retumed,  but  not  to  troublf 


\^-:::     il 


.      «      -'^ 


'"T'î'*^ 


^Z     THINGS    EVEN. 


447 


*»• 


you.  I  doubt  if  he  will  evea-  trouble  you  or  any  one  raori 
An  accident  bas  happened  to  the  yacht." 

She  stands  silent,  palç,  looking  at  Mm,  waiting  for 
what  is  to  corne  next.  ' 

"  it  was  last  night— it  was  yery  fo^^y,  yoiT  may  re-^ 
member.  One  of  th^^reat  passenge^teamers  of  thç^ 
Sound  ran  her  do>yn  and  sunk  her.  Three  of  the  seven 
on  board  were  drowned-*^the  others  were  picked  up  by 
the  steamer's  boats.  Young  Colvert,  the  owner  of  the 
yacht,  is  among  the  lost,  and  from  what  is  said,  I  think 
his  guest.  Sir  Vane."  *        " 

She  sits  down,  feeling  suddenly  sick  and  faint,  un- 
able  to  speak  a  wor4,  j  \ 

"  The  bodies  bave  just_been  recovered  ;  they  lie  ^ 
yet  at  a  water-side  hôtel,  awaîTing  identification.  I  am 
on  my  way  to  see,  and,  1^"  may  be,  to  identify  your  hus« 
band.  Try  not  to  be  pvelifome  by  this  shock.  I  will 
keep  you  in  suspense  as  short  a  time  as  I  can.  Once  I 
hâve  seen  the  bodies,  I  will  return  hère." 

He  départs.  It  is  a  bright,  starry  twilight,  the  strcçt 
lamps  are  twinkling  in  the  A|>ril  dusk,  as  he  stridés 
rapidly  along.  He  hails  a  coupé  presently,  and  is  driven 
to  his  destination.  He  finds  a'crowd  already  congre- 
gated,  and  much  excitement  ;  thé  police  on  hand  to  pré- 
serve order.  He  makes  his  way  throj^h  the  throng  to 
theghastly  room  in  which'the  three  Stark  bodies  as  yet 
lie.  The  gas-light  floods  th^  dead,  upturned  faces  ;  the 
drowned  men  lie  side  «by  side,  awaiting*TeA>val.  The 
first  is  a  slender,  fair-haired,  fair-mustached  young  man 

— Lionel  Colbert.    The  second  is  a  seaman  ;  tl||  third 

he  draws  back  and  holds  his  breath.  Tftre  before  him 
lies  his  enemy— the  man  who  has  hated  him,  whp  bas 
worn  his  title  and  used  his  wealdi,  who  has  donc  his 
best  to  break  little  Snowball's  heart— -Vane  Valentiac^ 
"iUkrk.  fuid  ueau~i       ■ ■" —  ■* ■ 


( 


'i;'    «1 


it'" 


-w 


'^%Mt 


J-tl«  . 


-    s* 


dÉ 


/-•I  ,  ". 


i*---^ 


■4  ■> 


Y~r 


such  a  clatter  about  at  this  time  of  morninir  ?" 


;    '   ih>~\ 


'> 


-  « 


CHAPTER    XL. 
"EI^E  I  CEASE  TO  LOVE  HER,   MV  QUEEN I" 

breezy.     Isle  Perdrj^  lies  like  an  emeral'd  in 

B:;cTatr"^"^'^^''^^^^^^ 

even  at  thL tï  T'fl^^'"'''  quite  nine  o'clock,  but, 

r?„«H     ^*''^;™^'f  »°al  hour,  the  shrill-pitched  Frénch- 

_Canad,an  voice  of  oldM.a'am  Wetsy  rises  on  the  sunnv 

Kitchen  is  «toe  flood  of  eastern  sunshine  :  the  rows  oL 
burnished  tin  and  copper  malce  the  behold^r  wTnk  aLin     " 

n7-s  o^^':ot?or  '"'  ^^  '^^"'  «^  thépoHshed Tl' 
mg  stoye ,  pots  of  géraniums  and  pink  roses  on  the  win- 

Uisoftefted  by  ail  thèse  mellowing  influences  Ma'am 

iemîl  A     '•«Pro^/h  in  mingled   French  and  EnglislT 
Jemima  Ann  stands  near,  and  listens  and  laughs     The 
culprit,  out  m  the  hop-wreathed  porch,  tries-afso  n  for!  ' 
^gn  accents-to  make  himself  heard 

"Sure,  thin,  'twasn^t  my  fault-that  I  may  nivir  av  if  • 
was  ould  l^sy  !    It  was  ail  the  doin'  an^  theXlmen 

There  h#îs  now,  foreninst  ye,  an'  divil  another  word  av 
"What'stherow?"  ' 


h^fe' 


-fl/F    ÇtUEEN! 


449  Y 


"  Ah  !,bon  jour,  M'sieùi:  Jearilt' 
Instafttly  ail  trace  of  wrath  vanishes  as  if  by  magie 
from  tbe  faùô  of  Ma'arn  Weesy  ;  her  coffee-colored  visage  ^, 
beam»  with  pride  and  joy.      Tim  bas  only    forgotten' 
miadam's  bouquet  after  ail,  but  M.  Jean  lias  it,  she  fails 
not  to  perceive.  .  ' 

l'Madara  nearly  ready,  Miss  Hopkins?"  he  says.       ,  > 
"  Nearly  ready,  Captàin  John  ;  dressing.   .  I  will  tell 
her  you  h^ye  corne,  and  give'  her  her  bouquet/' 

"And  /will  give  you  some  breakfast,  M.  Jean,"  si^- 
gests  radiant  Ma'am  Weesy. 

*  Né,  M.  Jeknsays,  he  doèsn't  want  ^anythîng.  His 
appetite  bas  deserted  hira  this  morning,  it  appears  ;  he 
looks  and  feels  nervous  and  fidgety,  and  keeps  pulling 
out  his.watch  every  few  minutes  and  glancing  at  it  with 
impatient  eyes. 

"  I  wish  it  was  this  time  to-morrow,"  he  growls  in*  . 
wardly,  "  ail  the  to-do  over,  and  Inno  and  I,— dear  little    * 
Soûl  !  fairly  ont  on  blue  water,  with  ail  the'staring  eyes 
and  gapiilg  tongues  left  behind.    It's  a  capital  thing  to 
marry.  the  girl  of  one's  heart,  no  dodbt,  but  it's  a  very 
consiçlerabre  bore  getting  the  preliminaries  safely  over. 
ril  go  down  to  the  beach  and  smoke  a  cigâr,  Weesy,"  he 
says  aloud.     «' When  madam  is  ready  call  me,  will  you  ?" 
For  Dbjores— once    Lady  Valentine— is  "  m<«n  " 
hère,  and  for  the  last  f^^een  months  hàs  hidden  ^^If 
and  hersorrows  an\l  her  widowhood  in  the  sea-girt  se-  ' 
clusion,  so  often  sighed  for#of  Isle  Perdrix.    G«prgé 
Valentine  brought  and  left  herdiMe  when  he  depa^d 


assert  his  rights,  and  prookiim  B^  identity  as 
succession  to  Valentine.  ^  _ 

And  now,  standing  before  the  ^dressing-glass  in  her 
little  room,  she  is  robing  for  a  bridai,  and  feeling  as  if  ,- 
-the_past  years  had  dropped  away  from^her  liffrOikc a  bad~^ 


t  s 


ta* 
next  in 


dream,  and  that  ift  is  the  jubilant  girl,  Snowball,  who 
sings  softly  to  hers^f  and  smiles  back  at  her  own  fair 
image  in  the  mirror.    It  is  John  Macdonald's  wedding. 


,  -■* 
■s; 


/. 


Ï'X^\.-': 


'%t 


^ 


'\,-' 


[y 


dayÇ  andJEnnocente  Desei 
fair  and  finish  Sn^ball 
/Qses   iri  her.chepksand  i 
a  rose  and  à  staf  heUlêlf, 


\UEENI 

ux  is  the  bridé, 
tio  cornes  ^ow 
iriy  briUiaace  i 


^^donaîa,  w^p  catebeé  a^^pse^^^i 
BjrJove  r  he  éaysj  afià^amfe  anil 


iS  sunby  vision 
dl 


cQe^  befdi'ê  ^<>«  camè-4w 
.  might-have-bsen'^  ji.^u.io!M| 

Sl*i|n6  berself,  it  yoû  don't  take 
ildas,  ofs  course,  >v^i;h^ve  a 


4i^i^l<^tier  yôu  are^  Johnriy,"%orts 

JJS"   v^^"^  '^^  business.     Outshine  your  Innl^n 
4eed  !    Xo.,  know  very  wpll  if  the  Venus  AphroditerôL 

<^Ê^::^''^^r^^  ^"  wouii^o:^:s 

,^dess  rather  a  plam-Io9king.young  woman  compared 

^Tl  S?^-.  ^'f  "-  ^^  ^  ^^"^«  ^°d  1^'  "°^«  look  ^iyou  •' 
,     ^^hn  Macdonald  does  as  ^e  is  bid,  and  laughingly 

"  ,J^tt:^  ""^  folds  hisa,ms  and  holds  hims^eb^ 


%ereçt  ifor  inspection 


tnunU  .if  ^  ^.«^ot  thmk  Inno  need  be  ashamed  of  yàu 
SLl^^T''"'''^'?^"  ^^^  "onlyl  hope  you  Jnï 
^otm^er  about  and  ^  awkward,  John ny,  and  drop  the 
nng  and  turn  a  bright  crimson  a^  the  w^ong  tîmTaàd 


.h 


-re  Louis  will  be  sure  to  laugh  at  you  if  you  d 
knowhjs  dreadfuliykeen  sensé  of  %h6  ridiculpus  a 
and  with  the  sisterlymotherly  regard  I  hâve  for  ' 
dear  boy,  it  would  p»«  pe  to  «?  the  finger,— 
j[iQmteàsX^Q^ojxy^m.eûéixï^-Û2iy.     Yop^ 
conduct  yours^f  ralUBly  ?"  implores  Dolo 
Ycs,  1 11  tly,"  says  Capt^à  Macdonald. 


ic^.-.  ^i?^»*^^^^^^"'*'  *- t'5»<l^  ku 


# 

f 

^ 

^ 

- 

H 

«^ 

I1 

,    V 

« 

4;. 

.  .    N 


K 


/ 


MY    QUEENI 


4SI; 


.  ."  with  your  maternai  eye  uoon  me,  how  can  î  faiU    Teri 

•  o'clock,  Snowball,"  pullAp-out  the  perpétuai  watch  ; 

'•  look  $harp,  will  you,  like  a  dear  girl  ?    Hâve  you  had 

:  anythitig  in  the  way  of  breakfast,  or  will  you  wait  for 

/^  breakfast  ?    It  takes  place,  you  know,  at*eleven," 

"I  know.  I  will  not  be  late.  I  will  take  a  cup  of 
tea,.please,  Ma'am  Weesy— nothing  more.  Did  yôu  " 
— ^e  asks  this  carelessly,  her  face  averted  while  sipping 
her  teoHif'  did  you  receive  the  letters  you  looked  for  last 
night  after  I  |eft— from  M.  Paul,  I  mean  ?" 

"  One  from  M.  Paul-r-Sir  George  Valentine  Vàther— 
none  from  René.     Sir  Geôrge's  letter  is  ail  right— what 
might  be  expeçted  from  such  a  thorouçh  good  fellow. 
Hë  will  corne— will  be  hère  by  the  afternoon  train  ^D. 
V.)  to  wish  ns  fedicity  aqd  ail  that.    eut  îtvJKill  be  no 
:  end  of  a  bore  if  René  fails  to  put  in  ^"appearance." 
"  You  still  hope  then,  that  he  m^  come  ?" 
"  Well,  you  see,  while  there's  MK^there's  hope,  as  they 
say,  and  the  very  fact  of  his  pot  having  written  encour- 
age? me  in  the  belief  that  he  may  be  on  his  way.    I  haven't 
seen  the  dear  old  boy  for  yèars;  it  will  spoil^ven  my 
wedding-dUy  if  he  fails  me  pow.  Ready  ?  Come  on  then." 
They  go.    As  they  ente^r  the  boat,  Camain  MaCdon^ld 
takes  f fom  hit pdllcet  a  letter,  and  handsît  to  hen 

"  Valentine's,"  he  says,  "  read  it  as.  we  cross.  It  is  a 
capital  letter,  from  the  prince  bf  good  fellows,  and  there 
is  a  message  for  you."  .1 

For  M.  Paul  Farrar  is  Sir  George  Valéûtine  at  last, 
in  sight  of  ail  t^e  wor^g|^d  reigning  Seigneur  of  Manor 
Valentii^liÉ^grelPfbr^e,  the  old  nâme,  lost  once^ 
for  a  wd#^n,  hâve  bcpç  i<|géïned.  His  claim  was  suf- 
fi*^^«#y  Pasy  toj)rove-  Inany  sti^  renlained  in  Toronto 
who'^membered  George  Val^ntiîe perfecdy.  .J^nd  soit'. 
xomes4o  pasa  tliat  i^ponglho  prifiriîld  ^tsc^Ànni 


dens,  up  and  down  the  leafy,  lofty  avenues,  through  the 
empty  echoing  galleries  of  lil&ïiôr  VaWfeiitirie,  Sir  George 
wal^s  aiid  sinokes  and  muses»  ^^M-    H©  b  far  more  of 


i'. 


^ 


,       H* 


1» 


■t' 


'     «»       ■',  «Y    QVEEN!  '  '''' 

•       »'»TOri'ewithtlîrresidenteentrrth«„,i,.i  .    "u  ' 

ever  was  :  neoDle-»,^,^.    genuT  tùan  the  late  baronet  ' 

and  attractive  shoûrdanni.   ;  '  V  "■'"^■'«"y  handsome 
enfine,  sSL  hl^oCr^  """■''!.    ''"'  «^-"-S*  ^1 

hi.  one  brief;Sl''s    ^^--f^^^     -ver  ^arry-, 
«er  to  au  thought  of  thT       ■  '^  '  *"  ^'"*  *°'- 

.he,1;tr„'st°3s  '""•'  "■"""'  "*  drealns-through 
-th«;  „e  th*  STZr  ',1?;'°"?  o^CavendS    ' 
-,  duskyManorroor^rh,h  ..''^'''''■'''''"■«'««■'i-K  «he 

:  down^he^desS  '  rS     T.«'"'l"'^''°'''^  "P^°<' 
footsteps  hâve  t^Xn^f         "*""■  ^''^''^  "^  «^W'dish 

„S<«,eti^es  .h:4'^it°  o^L-Cc; t.'Tt'L;  ^T^" 

«Hs.eningarbtTnr^aTrn^fr""''^ '"V 
nupttal  bénédiction.-  It  isallovér  »  h  ^i    u    T""  '^" 

away,  and  even  under  the  sef  erem, ,      '  "^1  """»  «'''«» 

of  "  madame  "-who«  b le  4«  a«  aTrif  ^"^"2? 
sure— -the  briHi»c>r« u  "^         ®  *  '""®  dim,  tb  te 

.«»ynoable"f^riuL''n'  "'"'"^''-''«1  M-^eW  bl 
{  unutterable  ZT^or  el™  /  *  °™''' '°  ^^P**'»  Jo"»  V 
l?er;- to  be  tbec^lii^^^t^  o^!;:  °  Pj-  ^jî'^;;^-? 


i. 


fe«t  is  ove,^  too,  heàlths  hâve  SZirutT:  I.^  ^"'^^^^ 


ij4r" 


"I 


V*'     ; 


"..Tv 


■'r£  '«t^r'fi^'^^ 


i< 


M  Y    QUEEN! 


\  w. 


$M. 


tears  wiped  away,  with  smiles  to  chase  them,  ^nd  it  is 
.  afternoon,  and  nearly.  train  time,  and  one  heart  there  is 
peating,  beating— ah  !  as  hearts  havè  beaten  for  ail  time 
— will  beat  still  in  that  day  when  ail  time  shall  end. 
Others  discuss  the  coming  arrivai,  or  arrivais  it  may  be, 
only  "  madame  "  says  nothing.  A  deep  permanent  flush 
burnson  her  cheeks,  a  brilliant  feverish  light  is  in  her 
eyes,  her  puises  are  throbbing  with  sickenittg  rapidity  at 
times,  and  then  again  seeming  to  stand  still. 

Will  he  corne— will  he' come  ?  Every  feverish  beat 
^f  her  heart  seems  beating  out  that  question.  She  has 
not  seen  him  sincq  that  day,  so  long  ago^oh  !  so  long, 
long  ago— under  the  trees  of  Valentine.  ,By  which  it  will 
be  seen,  by  ail  whom  it  may  concern,  that  it  is  not  Sir 
G€or^e  whose  coming,  or  non-coming,  is  setting  her 
nerves  and  puises  in  this  quiver. 

She  breaks  away  from  it  ail,  presëntly— the  guests, 
the  laughter,  the  music— and  goes  out.  It  is  a  little  out 
of  the  ordinary  routine,  this  wedding— the  day— the  last 
day  for  so  long,  is  spent  by  the  happy  pair  hère  among 
their  relatives  and  friends.  This  evening  they  go  on 
board  the  big  ship  waiting  out  there  in  the  stream,  ready 
to  spread  hjr  white  wings  for  South  America,  the  first 
thing  to-morrow  morning.  The  shriek  of  the  incoming 
tpitt^  reaches  Dolores  as  she  steps  out  into  the 
garden.  That  shriek,  listened  for  ail  day,  comes  to  \itx^m^^ 
,like  a  shock  at  last.  She  turns  white  in  the  Ma/^^^^t 
sunshme,  and  cold— what  if  it  has  not  brought  him  after^ 
ail  !  If  itiiB  so  she  feels  she  mùst  béâr  it,  just  at  first, 
alpne,  not  under  ail  those  eyes  in  there,  and  so  she  hur- 
r^  on,  and  down,  aimlessly,  to  the  water's  edge.  As  sfie 
#Pnds  she  ^^see  Isle  Perdrix,  its  tall  light-house  pierc- 
Jng^theh^a^mi^,  its  long  white  strip  of  bard  beach,  the 
*JB«kc  uu/ïîirup  from  the  Itttte  péacef ûî  côlïage 


#  as  she  staads,  some  one  comes  up  the  path,  and  it  is  îSir 
(xeorge  Valentine,  and  alone  !" 

She  siotks  down  on  the  low  garden  wall,  and  covers 


t 


'H 


\ 


P5^»fi?^^ 


m: 


S:: 


4S4 


'uEfi/ir/ 


At 


her  face  mimmmmsm       w«  ».- 

she  has  loved  hinr  and  '   ,       iiiMSI^'         "  ^^'"  ''^« 
she  ha^oever  known  ^^  sflh^  u'^*"'  '*^  ^^' 


%f5  her  words  evoked  him?     a    k      •  j 


«* 


.       '«^^;yfill6hèih«irtas$hesits;  ■ 


VOl^ 

before  her.     «  DolorP«  ir^^  ?  ïs  Kene  who  stands 

-«./  Ve  .eel  «t^H"'  hi^S *""  '""''  '    ^'"*''# 

besi4e  you,  to  look  at  vou  to  IS.  ,£*■■*  *?  "'  '■«'»  . 

,  '  -"  is^it  «hought  ?r;:ii  fc^l^^r  *!" 


V 


.*  .V 


4' 


'».„■:,*(: 


^l      At 

5  has^ 
for  thé 

her  life     ' 

hto  her 

ntil  this     '^ 

ys,  and 

you  nd» 

step,  a. 

ail  her 

e  wild. 

îs — tny 

stands        ^ 

'^^«M 

)n  the 

l    her. 

Bssing   "      1 

•4 

ît  old           J 

e-and 

'^  »n          1 

5^e--<|, -v  .^■ 

can%<' 

hère 

>rer         -J 

thit^*.        1 

,  can           4? 

-'ifî-           ^ 

rain, 

;oin* 

J?t': 


■^ 


MY    QUEENt 


ASi 


Ing:  any  «me  the  past  year.    I  held  myself  by  Torce- 

sheer  force  of  wiU-away.     It  was  too  soon,  out  of  con- 

sideration  foryou,  but  you  do  not  know,  you  never  can 

know.  what  the  effort  cost  me.     And  those  letters,  4Pw 

and  farbetween,  formai  and  friéndly,  I  used  to  tear  up  a 

dozen  drafts  of  eàch,  in  which  myheait  «/^/^creep  out 

%  ,  at  the  po.nt  of  my  pen.    Though't  I  was  not  coming  ! 

Oh  !  you  might  hâve  known  mé  bet|er  than  that.     And 

now  I  hâve  come,  and  for  yim,  my  long  lost  love,  nevei- 

to  leave  you  again-to  take  you  with  me,  my  own  for- 

||ver,  when  I  go."  .  \  ,  y  own  lor 

i    What  is  Polores,  is  any  one,^o  say  to  suçh  impetuous 
WQOingashis?    It  sweeps  away  ail  before  it 
Uk^^^f  ^  M  ^*^^'"^"y'  *^^°  ^^^*  i'  seems,  when  he 

"I  hâve  thfe  programme  ail  arranged.  ,  Our^eddini? 

*ct  placfr-weU,youshall  name  the  day,  ofkpiÎPse— but 

l^ne  sbmetime,  and  there  is  to  be  no  talk'oï  elabonïte 

ÎjI^®^"  °''  *^®^*y»  because  I  hâve  neither  the  ti>^or 

nj^liiçî^Q^o  li^ten.     We  will  be  married  în  Ihe  little 

church^  there,  and  Père  Louis  shall  perform  the 

vceremotiv.      Tilcn   we   go  to   Valentinc  for  July  and 

August,\to  Paris Jor  September  and  the  autumn,  and 

Oack  jo  Rome,  our  home,  Carina,  in  the  early  winter.    i 

hâve  it  ail  arranged,  yoù  understand,  an4  if  you  ki" 

any  just  or  lawful  reason  ^I;iy  it  m^y  not  be  carried 

you  will  be  Irftïd  enough  to  state  it/now,  or  foreverl 

hold  your  pcîMpe."  ' 

«  Some  one  is  singing.    Listeii "  is  Dolores'  stîU 

inconseqwnt  reply  ;.  «itis  Inno-ihas  she  not  a  charm- 
mg  voice?" 

Througti  the  open  Windows  the  tender  refrain  of  thé 
much  sung  love-song    "My  Queen,"    cornes   to    tht 


M- 


hnppy  lovefSrskiiag^faefe; 


'  When  and  how  shall  I  earliest  meet  ber  ? 

What  are  the  wqrds  that  she  firat  will  say?     1 


^^>^ 


/. 


fji  .r" 


5?i 


1- 


^. 


"4.. 


-'■m. 


!*. 


ï;«ïJi!Kîsrî' 


Jfy   QUEENt 


iW:'-     /  <■' 


07  wlut  luuM  ihaU  I  l«iuB  to  giMt  htr  ? 

I  know  Dpt  aow  I  It  wUl  coflM  «MM  daf  . 
With  ttais  mHhmhm  WBUgbt  •blalng  npoo  bar, 

Shiaioff  down  oa  IMT  ringtoti  •hflen, 
She  is  Mudiaf  •oiiiewlMf»-«lM  I  wlll  boBor, 

Sb«tiiatIwaittor-iBr<|iiMfi,m7<|uccal  ^ 

**SlieBiuatbeeowt«eiw,tfieflMMtbtbol7,  [ 

Pure,  sweet,  and  tender,  tlie  gifl  I  loT«  ; 
Wbetber  ber  birtli  be  humble  or  lowlf, 

I  eue  DO  mora  tbao  tbe  aagwU  above. 
And  ru  give  m7  bcart  to  fliX  iadjr'a  Iweipiiig, 

AadeTcrberMrniffthOBiBiiM  dulllean,  * 

And  tbe  •un  riiall  lall  aad  tba  aalnta  bfl  weepiiig, 

Bra  I  ceaic  to  loré  bar-flijr  qiMca,  my  queen  r 

**  And  ail  this  timc,"  says  René,  "  I  havte  not  asked  joa 
once,  if  you  love  me^  my  queen  ?" 

Who  is  it  talksof  briUiant  flashes  of  silence?  Dolores 
does  not  answer — in  words — and  René  does  not  repeat 
Jiis  question.  They  rise  as  the  sweet  song  ends,  and . 
turn  to  go  back  to  the  house  ;  and  who  needs  words 
when  hearts  are  ftUed  with  bliss  ?  For  love  is  strong, 
and  youth  is  sweet,  and  both  are  theirs,  and  they  are  to- 
gether  to  part  no  more. 


'■\ 


-^ 


A 


/ 


!  ■» 


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A. 


'^A.  Jv*?  -»- 


;"^;^^;'/^':';'*  ;•  )m 


■^^^        ■  a, 


t 


■'  ■'  ;>'  y  ■'^•f 


■f: 


.A 


^ 


y 


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^ 

■ , 

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t 

- 

-     - 

:J, 

t 

(.«U^'V  ■■ 

L 

--J,    .' 

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t' 

tu 

•tf. 


m 


V  > 


"^  ni  *  -  •  *R 


*  • 


X^ 


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..,  f 


-^     ■    J^''- 


»9 


\,   .^. 


41     '     • 


ëmmh 


